


we wear the mask that grins and lies, (-it hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—)

by llamallamaduck



Series: ring out the old, ring in the new, (-ring out the false, ring in the true) [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Naruto
Genre: Canon is a river somewhere right?, Even weirder if you're actually a thirty something year old shinobi, F/F, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Hogwarts is a deeply weird place, Itachi is reborn as Sirius Black, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), No Bashing, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Sane Tom Riddle, Worldbuilding, Yes that is what we're going with
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 45,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28149486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llamallamaduck/pseuds/llamallamaduck
Summary: Itachi Uchiha, officially known as Sirius Black, leaves his brother yet again. It seems kin-slaying has somewhat predictable consequences. Honestly, who thought sending a traumatized Shinobi to Hogwarts was a good idea?This little killer goes to school,This little killer can’t stay home.This little killer feels a fool,This little killer yearns to roam.
Relationships: Arcturus Black III & Sirius Black, Regulus Black & Sirius Black, Sirius Black & Albus Dumbledore, Sirius Black & Kreacher, Sirius Black & Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: ring out the old, ring in the new, (-ring out the false, ring in the true) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2059230
Comments: 588
Kudos: 681
Collections: hp ffs ✨, why im sleep deprived 💖✨





	1. Intro

Itachi, Heir of Ancient and Noble House of Black is hiding in the luggage compartment.

No, really, like an imbecile. All the way in the back, up on the shelf, a little to the right. The trunks are stacked magically, but whatever spell - or invisible elf - directs where what goes, they allow Itachi his oasis. Technically his trunk - shrunk and dangling from his arm - would occupy the same space Itachi occupies now, so. It’s fair.

The reasons for his ignoble decision are many and varied. The main reason, naturally, is that in about one hour, he will be attending his first semester at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Well, no. The main reason is that everyone and their grand-niece thinks Itachi - Sirius, but who’s counting - is either crippled by his Father or a murderous lunatic in his own right. Well, no. The _main_ reason is that Itachi has spoken to perhaps three children in this life, and it’s a trend he would very much like to continue as long as possible.

Well, no.

Regulus didn’t want to talk to him. Somehow, Itachi has managed to not repeat a single mistake of his first life, and still end up with more or less the same result.

Regulus didn’t speak to him, other than to rip into him with force and viciousness that would make their fucking mother proud. That honestly made Itachi proud, even if it sent him arse over kunai into a panic attack.

So - he hides. There are children in this train he needs to speak to. Frank fucking Longbottom is one such child. Aunt Dorea’s little baby Potter is another. Cousin Narcissa lurks somewhere too, even if she is, according to everything he’d heard, the least interesting Black of the lot.

Failing that, there are two other Ancient and Noble Heirs. Both of them less significant than House of Black of course, but still. House Shafiq sent their Heiress, and house Morgan their Heir, both of them in Itachi’s year.

All sorts of politicking needs to happen. Is expected of him, even. It’s more or less why he’s here.

Well. It’s exactly why he’s here, lumped into the Sage-forsaken shelf, like a bag of onions. More broadly, it’s why he’s here in Hogwarts Express. Hogwarts. Politicking is why he is the Heir, why he is allowed all the freedoms he’s been given, and why none of those freedoms could have kept him home with his brother.

Politicking, in short, is what Sirius Black was born to do.

Itachi Uchiha, on the other hand, was born to murder the enemies of his family brutally and without pause. Which is not as dissimilar to the first as it might appear, but dissimilar enough to cause confusion. Itachi wasn’t made to think, to discern, to know strategy.

That, he muses morosely, as he huddles into his cloak, is rather the point. Itachi was taught tactics but not strategy, which fucked everything up gloriously. Sirius was taught strategy but not tactics, which managed to do the same.

Between his two lives, he really should have had the complete set of instructions. Apparently not. Apparently, there is something still missing. A whole lot more, in fact, since where before he had a whole Clan, a village and a dictator to keep happy, now he only had Regulus. Only one person.

And he failed.

The one-track nature of his mind would be amusing if it wasn’t as shameless as it was. Even now, when Regulus should be way back on his list of concerns, he has somehow snagged the first spot. The boy is happy, unharmed, living in the lap of luxury, beloved son of the wealthiest family in Britain.

Whereas Itachi is heading into a school led by a notoriously Light, and ruthless Headmaster. The papers have been stringing him up and down for days, and it will only get worse from there. His father tortured him a hairsbreadth from insanity, and healing took so much out of him, he is forbidden to do any magic for three weeks. He has somehow promised Riddle a party, which he needs to honour without officially siding with him. Considering all that, is Regulus really his first concern? He tugs his cloak closer petulantly.

Yes, yes he is. How could he not be?

Izanami, he’s pathetic.

Alright. Mission plan. Does he have a mission plan?

Does he even have a mission objective?

He sighs.

Alright, short term goals. That is a thing, he’s sure. He’s read about it, even. A mental health guide to something. Functionality, possibly. Not murdering your classmates in a fit of pique. Possibilities are endless

The mission plan for this day. Don’t embarrass yourself. Your Head of House is already afraid of you because you remind him of Riddle of all the Goddamn wizards. Try not to add to it.

Itachi is the soul of discretion.

Honestly, it would be easier if he was in any way in sync with the boy he is supposed to be. And up until a little while ago, he was. He lived as Sirius for - years. And then Orion fucking Black had to lose every single molecule of sense and the rest, well.

It’s all Orion’s fault honestly. Itachi can’t be Sirius, can’t pretend to be a British wizard-child of eleven. Not when he’s on guard from an imminent fight to the death at all times. Torture and combat only bring out the worst in him, as it happens. And worst, in this case, is Kin-slayer Itachi.

It’s really bad luck, he thinks, that Slughorn keeps seeing him at his worst. Really, Sirius can be a charming little thing, when he wants to be. The Black features are very rewarding towards irreverence, and everyone likes a beautiful child.

Unfortunately, there is very little left in Itachi right now except for a weary determination and washed-out sense of great age and weight. He’s likely killed another father. He is Kin-slayer Itachi in both lives. This one, to be fair, is at least well-deserved.

* * *


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sorting

One of the best ways of avoiding suspicion is to project confidence. Any type would do - confidence born from seduction, confidence based in skill, ancestry, money, charm and so on and so forth. Itachi is an odd duck, in that Sirius Black has a solid claim on all of them. The traumatized, sulking, scrawny boy forbidden from using magic has not.

He comforts himself with the sure knowledge that, while this inconvenient truth is plain as day to him, it’s not to these children. If a Shinobi - any Shinobi with more than a year of field-work under their belt - couldn’t bluff their way through a civilian school, there would be a lot less Shinobi.

Are you done with your insane little pep-talk, he asks himself dryly? No? Too bad, the train has stopped, and you had better be the first one off.

The night is clear, unfortunately. It would be simpler if it were windy and rainy. And less brightly lit. As it is, the picturesque little train station offers no cover, and soon enough children will be perfectly positioned to gawk at him. 

One by one, children hop off the train, chatting excitedly about this and that.

(A part of him that will always hold deep, existential awe of children of all shapes and sizes, melts at the show of innocence. Another part of him that is very aware just how trying the coming years will be, shudders in revulsion.)

“First years.” Calls a deep, serious voice. “First years, come here.”

The speaker is a middle-aged wizard, with every indicator of a retired Shinobi. It’s the scars, mostly, but also the feeling that he’s seen some shit, and that your drama doesn’t concern, alarm, or otherwise affect him.

Happy as a clam to have something to do, he wastes no time and marches towards the Token Responsible Adult. His bow is low - lower than it should be, considering their social status. It’s the scars. The man’s obvious knack for surviving garners him a lot of respect in Itachi’s eyes.

The whispers increase because even an action this insignificant will be noted and discussed. A wave of exasperation crashes into him. Fucking children.

“Mister Black, I presume.” Says the Professor evenly. “You might be interested to know the school has received no fewer than seven reports that you are not, in fact, on the train.”

Itachi blinks slowly, like a cat signalling it is not afraid. “I can’t imagine why anyone would bother. Irrelevant, I suppose. “

Professor hums. “Not many things are. Irrelevant I mean. Either way, my name is Professor Kettleburn, the Magizoology Professor. I am thankfully not going to have to bother with you for the next two years at least.”

Itachi cocks his head. “Merry meet, Professor Kettleburn.” He bows again, just as low, with a bit of pettiness, admittedly. The Professor can pretend to be even and wise as much as he wants, but he is an adult and thus annoyed at the children twittering about how deep an eleven-year-old bowed.

“Merry meet, Heir Black.” The Professor replies with an amused expression. “You will learn that the traditional ways are rarely used between lecturers and students at Hogwarts.”

“Lady McGonagall has mentioned it, yes. Since you’ve made it obvious that you will not be my instructor for at least a couple of years, I thought it would be appropriate.”

“Cleverly argued.” Nods the Professor. “I will allow it. Rhetoric won’t help you with some of the faculty but it will with most. Address me as you will, but don’t expect me to respond in kind. You might be a political animal outside of these walls, but in here you are just another student.”

Hmmm. That sounds a little - personal.

He meets the professor's eye and obviously looks around, theatrically taking in the whispering pointing students.

“I am sure Hogwarts is entirely apolitical, Professor.” He says flatly.

Kettleburn’s lips twitch. “You are just another student to _me_ , little Black.”

The Professor is the first to break their conversation with a placid hum of amusement. “First-years.” He says, voice carrying despite the buzz of conversation. “First-years.”

Itachi has chosen his spot well. Half behind Kettleburn, he can barely be seen by the students far away. Such as Frank. God, but he doesn’t have the strength for Frank.

* * *

The group of first-years is honestly bigger than he’d thought it would be. Fifty-nine, to be precise, considering there are fifteen boats full of children plus one Magizoology professor.

Nobody wanted to get in the same boat as Itachi. Amusingly, it wasn’t even completely his fault. He stood quietly next to the professor, and the children shied away from the scarred strange man who stood quietly and observed them with shrewd yellow eyes. The fact that much-rumoured Black Heir was there, well.

In the end, the two shared their boat with the last two people who couldn’t find a spot. The two, a pretty pair of children, sport every hallmark of a wholesome upbringing. Muggle, he’d assume, based on how ill at ease they were with their Robes. Muggle-raised, or Muggleborn.

They must have been warned by a well-meaning child that they should stay away from the Muggle-hating Black because they didn’t even try to get to introduce themselves.

Unimportant. This is all so profoundly unimportant.

The Castle is - something. While not quite the architectural wonder of Castle Black, it is much bigger, for one. _So much bigger._ From what Itachi has understood, Hogwarts has about five hundred students, give or take. This Castle could comfortably house five thousand, and that’s if they’re paying a lot of attention to comfort.

What, then, is he missing?

A question for another time, perhaps. They have arrived.

Professor McGonagall meets them at the entrance, going through whatever performative tradition set for this step of the exhausting process. Not interested in the slightest, he takes his time to observe the first-years.

Right of the bat, the class is surprisingly ethnically similar. Perhaps it's his prejudice - it’s probably his prejudice - but he’s gotten used to the crazy eye- and hair-colours in his previous life. And let us not forget those Clans with a close relationship with their summons. Orochimaru comes to mind, but so does Kisame.

British Europeans, with a few exceptions, are pale-skinned and with more or less similar bone-structure. He can pick out the Purebloods easily enough to make his mind turn to the levels of inbreeding at the Isles.

A pretty-faced, jagged-eyed boy ambles towards him and sketches a shallow bow. He does a small double-take - but no, Lady McGonagall is gone for the moment.

“Merry meet, Heir Black.” Says the boy. Who - who - _fuck_ he needs Regulus. Without his hissed abridged notes and seemingly endless knowledge of the peerage, he’s completely lost. The boy notices his apparent lack of social awareness because he continues smoothly. “My name is Athelstan Morgan.”

Ahhh.

“Heir Morgan,” he murmurs back, nodding deeply. House of Morgan is just about as close to House of Black you can find on the British Isles. “Merry meet.”

They both ignore the buzz around them, and the way quite a few of their classmates are watching the interaction. Some with confusion, some with calculation, but a good few with derision.

“If I may,” says Morgan, “I would like to introduce you to Heiress Esfir Shafiq.”

Ahh, he casts an amused look to the boy. He’s a sacrificial lamb, is he? A way to connect the three Sacred 28 heirs in their year.

“Merry meet, Heiress Shafiq,” he murmurs, nodding at the curtsying witch. For such a young girl, the Shafiq heiress is memorable. It’s impossible for girls of eleven to be anything but pretty, but Heiress Shafiq shows every sign of being a spectacularly remarkable woman. Which would serve her well, if she has plans to continue her House’s long dedication towards diplomacy. Beauty has its uses in such arenas.

“Merry meet Heir Black.” She seems to be much more at ease with the social manoeuvring than her - friend is a strong term. Than Heir Morgan. What does he know about the relationship between their houses -

Nothing. Nothing at all. He’s pretty sure they’re both Neutrals, but even that is a bit of a stretch.

“Please,” he says in the silence. “Call me Sirius.” Technically they’re all of the same rank - Sacred 28. He doesn’t have to be the one to invite the informality, but it is expected of him to do so.

Heir Morgan blinks at him slowly, with some idle interest that tips off into boredom soon enough. The girl smiles prettily.

“Thank you, Sirius.” She is the first to reply. “Please, I am Esfir.”

“Athelstan.”

(A strange, entirely unwelcome, thought slithers into his mind. Is it strange for him to be sharing a dorm with children? In ANBU, everybody slept together most of the time, but ANBU squeezed out every trace of innocence out of the recruits long before they become full-time members. Arguably, it is more inappropriate to send a child to murder your enemies than to sleep with one. Konohan odd mentality about such things always made little sense to him. Fucking a child was assault, but sending a child on a seduction-assassination wasn’t. In the end, it’s strange if he makes it strange. And since he’s to date never had felt the inkling of sexual energy for anyone, the children are pretty safe.)

“The sorting is about to begin. Students, please arrange yourself in pairs.”

The Professor’s words cause mayhem, as was perhaps predictable. Considering there is an odd number of students, he’s hoping to remain alone.

No such luck. A cute little elfin slip of a boy saunters up to him without much hesitation. His identity is no great mystery. With that nose, that hair and that jawline, it’s painfully obvious the boy is a Potter. Heir to the Noble House of Potter, in the likely case Dorea and Charlus aren’t blessed with offspring of their own.

“Heir Black,” chirps the Potter Heir with a nod as he drags him to take their spot in the queue.

Itachi - smiles. A crooked little twisted thing, but perhaps the most honest smile he’s produced this week. The boy is simply ridiculously charming. Well-loved, well cared for, pretty, smart and rich. And aware of all of it. There is genuine joy there, however, which nudges the scales from nauseating to charming. It’s hard to dislike people who are genuinely happy with their lot in life. Shisui was one such person. Kisame was another.

“Merry meet Heir Potter.” He nods back, a deep nod, deeper than the one offered by the irreverent boy.

“So polite Sirius.” Says Potter. His voice is a playful coo, friendly for now, but something about it - catches your attention. “May I call you Sirius? Excellent. Please do call me James.”

Itachi blinks at this outpouring of words and charisma. Frank was one thing, that boy had a calm, soothing aura about him. James is a vibrating little thing, full of energy, his magic wild and energetic as he is. His first impression was entirely wrong. Not Kisame or Shisui. A trickster. An Uzumaki.

With how close the boy is to him, his micro-expressions are easy to read. Hazel eyes flash over Itachi’s pallor, the limp, the skinny frame, the visible tremble in his hands.

It’s clear the boy’s clever eyes catch all that, but a clever child is still a child. He must have been told about Itachi’s - situation, but now that he’s face to face with a torture victim, things are a bit more complicated. Not that the boy knows anything about wounds or torture. He has enough empathy and social intelligence to sense a problem, but not enough to know what to do about it.

“Gryffindor, then?” Itachi says, rescuing the uncertain Potter boy.

“Absolutely!” Grins Potter. “Aunt ‘Rea says I’d do well in Slytherin, but I think she was mainly joking about that. I am no snake.”

Itachi hums, slightly amused. The faux pas was deliberate. A playful joke, that could turn not-so-playful if he reacts unfavourably. The boy is testing him, and Sage help him, it’s adorable.

“I agree that you would do well in Gryffindor. You appear to be quite daring.” He pauses for a second. “If I can be honest with you, the House system is a bit - arbitrary to my mind. I wouldn’t think a school should perpetuate stereotypes so recklessly.”

Thrown off by his mild tone and the unexpected bent of his reply, baby Potter blinks.

Did you come here determined to not like me, Itachi thinks, amused. Did you come determined to see a bigot?

“Do you not want to be in Slytherin?” He asks, uncertainly.

“I do not want to be thought of as an extension of an idea.” He replies, pitching his voice so that it carries slightly. These children might not be his responsibility (might be the _furthest fucking thing_ from his responsibility) but they are deserving of the truth. “I am a complex being, and do not accept anyone’s right to label me as one thing, and then consider their job done.”

James blinks, and a glint of understanding and curiosity lights up his eyes and softens the smile. “Your Hogwarts House though - they’re your family - your home. You are chosen, you are sorted into the best place for you.”

“I _have_ a family.” He says, perhaps a bit too sharply. “I have a home. And even if I wasn’t blessed with one, I wouldn’t want one to be chosen for me. Nobody has the authority to do that.”

Wow, this is getting a bit intense. Maybe the innocent question has hit a sore point, huh? What are you doing, exactly? But - he finds he doesn’t want to stop. He wants to have his say, this once. He can’t change this farce, he has to play by the rules, but he doesn’t have to do so quietly.

“My House will be the place I sleep. It will be the place where children of supposedly similar character reside. That is all. Friendships may form, but they may have formed elsewhere too, and I will perhaps never know. Because some old wise person once decided children should be labelled. Because that is fair or just or right.”

“While I hesitate to interrupt such a passionate cry for freedom from oppression.” Says McGonagall. Her tone might be dry, but her eyes are, if anything, approving. “The sorting is about to begin.”

He nods at her, not at all ashamed, even as the children titter nervously. She is the best possible audience for his words, anyway. The children, bless them, are practically fetuses. They might understand the general idea, but they fundamentally do not understand what freedom is for and how expensive it can be.

Itachi is aware, on many complex levels, just what freedom can give, what it can take, and what wacky fucking shit you can be driven to do in its absence.

“Yes, Professor.” He murmurs with a short bow. He and Potter have somehow ended up at the beginning of the line, and they follow the tall Lady quietly into the chamber.

It is, well, spectacular. The door leading them in is on the small side, and it opens into an enormous chamber. Over two hundred paces in length, and about the same in width, over twenty meters high, and that’s without taking into account the illusion of the night sky making it appear limitless. Interestingly, the room wasn’t square, but hexagonal, with four long parallel tables taking up most of the room. Students sit in chairs on either side, hundreds and hundreds of faces looking his way.

Automatically, his body falls into learned patterns. His spine straightens subtly, his shoulders twist back and down, he re-settles his weight so his steps are light and almost theatrical. His head tilts slightly, eyes lidding, heavy. Superior.

It’s a rude mask, honestly, but the whole fucking situation was rude. He is no animal to be paraded like this, to be stood here, awaiting judgment. What does it even mean, he seethes, far from the first time. Why are you doing this?

His lips twitch in disgust, and little Potter hums under his breath. “You need to relax, Black.” What, no Sirius? “I don’t know why you’re trying to make everyone hate you, but it’s going to work, and then what?”

“Anybody who thinks it’s appropriate to gawk at a child of eleven,” He says, not bothering to lower his voice. “Can go ahead and hate me. It is where our relationship would end up anyway. It’s only practical to get it over with.”

There is a pause, and a wave of whispers spread from the children nearest to him, all the way to the back, where the older years sit. Some chuckles are heard, as are offended gasps. A corner of his lips twists at the whispered words. Arrogant, conceited, Dark, evil.

“You might be the most dramatic person I’ve ever met.” Hisses James. “And I’ve met your Aunt Cassie.”

The Sorting Hat interrupts whatever his reply could’ve been by bursting into song.

It's unbelievably charming, he admits. It’s hard to remain disdainful in the face of such bald-faced whimsy. It’s ballsy. It’s tacky. It’s ridiculous.

He loves it. The song is a loosely rhymed generic pep talk. Be good, which is not the same as not being bad. Don’t be afraid. Learn. Things like that.

But it is sung. By a hat. A ratty old, ripped up, sorry bit of cloth.

What a _delight_. When it stops singing, he is the first to start clapping. The others join soon, the entire hall united in delight. And why wouldn’t they be? It would be a hard person indeed, to be unmoved by an expression of creativity and goodwill so unburdened with outside appearances.

“Ashe, Robin.” Calls out McGonagall, and the hall hushes.

Honestly, this system now makes even less sense. Why not order them outside? Why force the poor girl to walk from the back?

Ah well. He’s still riding the high of the song, and the hat, and the disastrous excellence of it all. He can rein in his clucking mind.

“Hufflepuff!” Roars the hat. Itachi loses his mind a little. The animation charms must have been unimaginably complex and layered. It tips its tip (hah) back and opens its imaginary mouth - which is really just bunched up fabric - and somehow the effect is incredibly expressive. That, there is a _roaring hat_. What even is his life.

The little girl - adorable as every little girl is - skips to the yellow and black table, which cheers politely - if a tad too exuberantly for Itachi’s tastes. Although it could be self-affirming, to those less sure of themselves, so he lets it go. It’s nice to be cheered for. (He doubts Slytherins will be anywhere near as effusive in their greetings for him.)

Aubrey, Isabell is sorted quickly into Ravenclaw, followed by Bates, Tammy who is sent to Gryffindor.

“Black, Sirius.”

Alright. He nods slightly at the Lady, and then at James, before walking leisurely to the little stool. Honestly, it looks like the whole sorting business could be a prank. The had a Hufflepuff, a Ravenclaw, a Gryffindor and now he will be a Slytherin -

The hat barely touches his head, before it calls “Hufflepuff” to the flabbergasted chamber. The only thing he hears, as the Hat is taken off his head, is the ghostly impression of hysterical laughter.

He sweeps his eyes over the hall. Mind spinning, he stands up and looks at the hat consideringly.

“Well played.” He murmurs, spins on his heel and makes his way to the shocked Black-and-Yellow table.

Interesting.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner

Nobody speaks to him, yet. To be fair, the Sorting is still going on. Baby Potter stares at him blank-faced and gaping, and he can hear snickers coming from the Gryffindor table. Goddamn it, Frank.

He watches the sorting, claps politely at each one, face arranged in an expression of polite disinterest.

Bones Heiress, with the odd name (ee DOH nee ah) goes to Gryffindor, the weaselly Burke boy goes to Slytherin. Evans, Lilly, a girl with every physical marker of an Uzumaki - tall, golden-skinned with long blood-red hair - visibly argues with the hat as the minutes tick by. When she’s sent into Gryffindor she hisses a wildly age-inappropriate curse at it before stomping off to the lions. Heron, Curtis, a stunningly symmetrical boy with an almost threateningly blank face goes off to Ravenclaw.

More important than pseudo-Uzumaki little girls, is Lupin, Remus, a brown-haired, heavily abused child sent off to Gryffindor. For some reason the chid’s barely closed wounds, numerous scars and haggard appearance draws no gossip - nothing like something truly interesting like Itachi sneezing.

His hackles are well and truly raised. From the look and sound of it, the child is not a Pureblood. If that is the reason he is left with barely treated wounds, heads will roll. There must be a hospital, here, that can document the abuse. There is also a convenient Bones heiress that has access to the DMLE. Not that he needs it. He has a very open channel of communication with the Aurors, what with the open court case, Izanami wept.

Several children have been sorted while he was fuming. The Morgan Heir is the next one that takes a long time to sort. After a long process - and the Morgan boy heavily signalling near-terminal boredom - the hat calls for Ravenclaw.

James goes to Gryffindor even quicker than Sirius went to Hufflepuff, a Rosier goes to Slytherin, as does the Shafiq Heiress. Snape, Severus, that was paired with the loud redhead and kept up a silent communication with her over the hall, goes to Slytherin. He doesn’t envy him his Muggle name, or his blatantly Muggleborn redheaded friend. More important than his dubious social standing, are the bruises on his neck and wrists, and the furtive, frightened way he flinches at sharp movements. That is another name for his list.

Eight children left - Travers, Turner, Vance, five - Warnock, Watts, Whitby, and finallyYoung; Warnock and Young join him at the Hufflepuff table, and the meal can commence.

He spoke too soon. The man sitting in the golden chair (like an asshole the petty part of his mind adds) stands. He’s - blindingly handsome, actually. Ambling toward the other side of middle-aged, with long Auburn-red hair cascading down his shoulders to the middle of his back, symmetrical features but for a too-long nose and electric pale-blue eyes, the Headmaster is a vision. His robes are a stunningly flamboyant combination of bright purple edged with gold, with colourful stars chasing each other through the fabric.

Yeah, he can see why this man frightens Arcturus. He can see this man being Riddle’s fiercest opponent. Everything about the red-headed wizard is arresting. Itachi can feel his magic crackling and pulsing from quite a distance away. He is tall and beautiful, his eyes twinkle, and he can pull off a hideous outfit. A force to be reckoned with, without a doubt.

“Welcome, students, new and old, to another year of learning at our beloved school. I know I should not keep you from your food for long - so I will not. Dig in!”

Itachi’s lips twitch, and he claps, wholly impressed. Say what you will, but Albus fucking Dumbledore is a badass.

He observes patiently as the plates fill magically - he can feel dozens upon dozens of house-elves working their magic.

“What, is the food not good enough for you, Black?” Says a boy. He turns his head, curious - ah. Another first-year. Who is it -

“Fawley, was it?” He asks evenly. The little conversations around him dims even further. The children don’t even pretend they are not listening closely. 

“Yeah, what are you gonna do about it?”

The child is impressively combative. It looks rather amusing, with the soft golden locks framing a slightly too-round face to be characteristic of a Pureblood.

“Merry meet, Fawley.” He nods amiably at the boy. “As to your questions, I am unfortunately not permitted to partake. Healers orders.”

“Yeah right.” Sneers the boy. “I bet your fancy house-elf will be bringing you food from your Castle as soon as you get to your room. I’m shocked your daddy didn’t buy you your own room!”

If the silence was tense before, now it’s heavy enough you can hear a pin drop. The second- and third-year students sitting near them pale, and even the feisty Fawley boy recognizes he has stepped in something beyond him.

Itachi cocks his head for a moment, thinking. Its entirely possible the boy didn’t know. Based on how he’s shooting the surrounding children panicked, confused looks, he didn’t.

Poor child. Calling out an eleven-year-old who was very publicly almost murdered by his father a few days ago isn’t going to give him any favours in the House of the Loyal.

What to say, though? There are of course many ways to cut the child down, but that seems excessive. Hmm. “Do you want to postpone this discussion to a later time, Fawley?” He offers, hoping the child will take the rope -

“Is that a threat?” He says instead, puffing out angrily.

Something throbs in his head, and a small sigh escapes him. Motherfucking children.

“No, Fawley,” he tries again. “I am simply saying-”

“What - that you are too good for us, for me, that your daddy will - “

God, the poor boy isn’t dealing well with being the centre of attention. He is babbling now, desperate to say anything the crowd will accept. He has obviously heard such words bandied about, and is now parroting them in hopes of success. And in any other situation, they might have been, but this -

He stares at the child spitting childish version of vitriol at him, slightly fascinated. He has never seen such a successful character assassination of oneself as Fawley is conducting, and it’s been less than ten minutes into the term.

Honestly, it might not be so boring here. The child isn’t winding down, and the horror of the onlookers keeps on growing.

Finally a slightly older girl-child three chairs from him sighs. “I cannot believe I have to say this. Fawley, for the love of Merlin, stop bullying Black.”

“What,” shrieks the boy - much too loudly. Children from other tables start paying attention to this little drama, but so does a Professor. Their Head of House, if the black-and-yellow sash draped across her torso is anything to go by. “I’m not - he’s the one - he’s a Black - come on - you heard what he said -” He’s spitting out words practically faster than his mouth can form them. It’s likely the anxiety and pressure from over a hundred of his peers staring at him with shock and horror that are driving him into a mild case of hysteria.

“Prefect,” orders the stern witch-who-is-possibly-their-head-of-house, not bothering with further instructions.

“Right.” The girl grimaces. “Fawley, I am a Perfect. I can and will take off points from you before the term has even properly begun if you don’t pipe down right now. This is not the time or place for your bigotry.”

Ouch.

He looks at the Perfect, who eyes him grimly, like she’s not on his side, and hates to be put in this position. “Black, do you need something - I notice you’re not eating.”

Fawley, who has paled and blushed at the same time, ending up with blotches on his place face squeaks something, but the boy next to him elbows him hard.

“I have a meeting scheduled with Lady - pardon me - Professor McGonagall to discuss some alternative accommodations the school has been graceful enough to provide. Thank you for your concern.”

The girl - thusfar unnamed - grimaces slightly at him, with irritation but also a fair bit of sympathy. “Yeah, I imagine you would. I’m Carol, Carol Hayes, the fifth year Prefect. Come to me if you need anything, yeah?”

He nods at her, deeper than usual to acknowledge her authority. “Merry meet, Ms Hayes. Thank you for your offer. I will be sure to do so, should it be necessary.”

“Wha - how is that fair -” hisses Fawley, and really, the boy should have been a Gryffindor.

Hayes turns a gimlet eye on him. “You better be just stupid, Fawley, or Professor Woodward will skin you alive for this.”

Fawley - finally having realized he’s truly pissed somebody off, and not Itachi as intended, settles down into a terrified, furious silence.

God these children will be the death of him. The intensity of emotion is truly overwhelming. He can just tell Fawley will flounce from the table. He can just _tell_.

Thank the Lady that people have overheard him, and he’s in the house of Loyal. While the whole situation is a hilarious bit of misunderstanding, it could’ve happened to some other severely abused kid who wouldn’t have had a life as a murderer to buffer them against such things.

Speaking of.

“As a matter of fact, Ms Hayes, I do have a question, if you don’t mind?”

The girl looks at him flatly. What -

“Shoot, kid. And sweet Circe, don’t call me Ms. Hayes. I’m Carol.”

He blinks and inclines his head. “Thank you. To my question: I assume the school has a resident Healer on-board?”

“Yeah. Healer Febru is the resident Mediwitch. Do you need her to be present at your meeting with McGonagall?”

Itachi winces slightly at the casual use of the Lady’s name. It’s common enough among the students he knows, but etiquette and hierarchy have been beaten into him for so long, well. It’s jarring.

“Yes, if possible. Either way, I am instructed to leave my medical information with Lady - Professor McGonagall.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The hush that falls on the table once that little interaction is finished is a fascinating study. The Purebloods and the more informed Halfbloods are still shocked and angry. The cleverer Muggleborns have either found a source or are keeping their heads down, not willing to draw the ire of the Prefect so soon.

Finish your food, come on, let’s get this over with.

The minutes drag by. He learns his classmates don’t appreciate his eyes on them for too long. He’s - dreadfully bored, but more important than that, he’s severely unbalanced.

Fucking Cruciatus. The after-effects are truly tedious. He feels fragile,like he’s one big exposed nerve, easy to set off. Easy to hurt.

Calm, now. Relax. In-out, pump your fists in the tune of your heart. Eyes locked at the candles above Ravenclaw table he goes through the motions. In-out, feel the rush of your blood, taste the hum of the air. Just - be. Be here.

His situation is worse than he thought because basic situational awareness is apparently beyond him. A hand falls down on his shoulder, and he startles. A flinch turns into a full-body jerk, as he forcibly stops his violent reaction. His classmates likely haven’t caught the move towards one of many hidden knives, but they might next time, if he doesn’t get himself under control.

“Pardon me.” He hisses, takes in a deep breath and turns to the stranger. “I was caught up in thought.

A tall, nondescript boy looks at him blankly. “No matter. I am the seventh-year Prefect, Logan Moss. I have contacted Healer Febru, and she will join you for your meeting with your Head of House, Professor Woodward and the Deputy Headmistress. If you are finished, I will escort you now.

Oh thank fuck. He glances at the head table - indeed Lady McGonagall and the-supposed-head-of-house-with-the-yellow-and-black-sash are gone.

“Merry meet, Prefect Moss.” He nods deeply. “I am grateful for your assistance. I am more than happy to leave presently.”

“See - see this - even the Deputy is fawning over him -”

How nobody informed Fawley of the situation by now is anyone’s guess. Possibly nobody wanted to do it when Itachi was right there, and honestly, it would be an act of aggression for Itachi to enlighten the boy.

But he’s definitely not making himself any friends.

“You - boy. What is your name?” Asks Moss, voice not betraying a single emotion.

Fawley looks up at the tall, bespectacled boy. “Fawley, uh, Preston Fawley.”

“Detention, Fawley. With my compliments. You are the first Hufflepuff in recent memory to receive detention before you finished with the welcoming feast.” He turns to the other children sitting around the pale boy. “You should have corrected him. Keeping a fellow badger ignorant is not loyalty. I will not take points yet, but I will be discussing it with Madam Woodward. While Black and I are gone, inform your classmate of his error. Do it fairly. I will know.”

“Well, Black?”

Itachi, dazed by the show of competence and utter lack of mushy emotionality gazes at the blank, apathetic face. Other than the glasses there is nothing special about the boy. Taller than average, brown-haired, dark-eyed, mouth thinner on one side. One eye slightly more tilted than the other. Nothing special and yet.

“Yes.” He says a bit too late, the awkward pause very much felt. “Thank you, Prefect.”

“Excellent.”


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Meeting

The Prefect leads him out of the hall - to intense interest from his classmates and the rest of the school. Which, okay, is understandable. A seventh-year leading the first-year out, sure, he can see that it’s odd.

The corridors are even more mesmerizing than the hall. A matching air of whimsy and brazen grandeur is felt throughout. It’s just so - _frilly_. He is used to Castle Black, to be fair, which is miraculously tame considering its age and dramatic flair of its occupants. Here, though, suits of armour stand on either side, enormous paintings sit on the walls, depicting the most screwy scenes. A pig is washing a duck in one. In the next one, nine dressed-up ladies are having tea around an ornate glass table. Upon closer inspection, their elegant white satin purses all have mice or frogs poking out. One mouse has a pink ribbon around its neck. One frog has a _monocle_.

He is lost in the paintings - falling in love every step of the way.

Who on earth built this? It’s - genius. Mad, gaudy, tasteless genius. A frog with a monocle!

They stop at a wooden door, bracketed on each side by, no joke, tree sculptures made out of steel. Mimicking suits of armour. But for trees. This school… “I leave you here, Black. The Professor will escort you to the common room.”

“Merry part, Prefect Moss.”

“Indeed.”

After a beat of hesitation, he knocks softly on the door and waits. This wasn’t covered in his etiquette lessons. Normally he was invited, the floo was opened or the house-elf was permitted to apparate him.

The door swings open - likely an invitation?

Three witches wait for him in silence. He makes his way over to them, trying to get as much information about his new opponents as he can.

Madam McGonagall, he has already had a chance to observe. Pureblood, wealthy, soul of dignity. Strict, proud, snappish. Is slightly biased against her gender, perhaps. Disdainful of beauty, and those who covet it. Intellectually elitist, perhaps, but would deny it. The epitome of Light witch.

The other two are - less archetypal. Professor Woodward, Head of Hufflepuff House, is a bony, older witch. Too tall to be the norm, she seems like a tree in winter - prominent knuckles and joints, skin wrinkled but without any prominent sagging. It’s the pure-white hair and the weight in her black-dark eyes that speak of how old the witch truly is. 

Healer Febru on the other hand is a middle-aged witch, tall and with a fuller figure radiating strength. Between the two, he’d have chosen her to be the stereotypical Hufflepuff. Everything from her round, pink face to her luxurious blond hair spilling down her shoulders in lazy waves, speaks of kindness and loyalty and calm. Self-possession, perhaps. Competence.

He cautiously admires all three witches. The staff so far seems top-notch. Even poor Slughorn, from what he’s come to learn about the man, was an impressive wizard, unhelpful fears aside.

“Deputy Headmistress, Professor, Healer,” he greets politely, with a low bow. His body twinges in warning. He ignores it.

“Mister Black.” Greets Professor Woodward, while the other two witches settle for a nod. “Please, have a seat. You have some material for us?” While McGonagall’s accent was distinctly different from what he has been getting used to - being Scottish nobility - she has nothing on Professor Woodward. The tempo of her voice is markedly different, consonants rolling more, and vowels spoken slower and deeper in her throat.

“Thank you, Professor.” He eyes the chair with a little impatience. His height is to remain a blight on his life. He’s by far the shortest student, more than a head shorter than the other first-years. Yet another way of standing out. With a swallowed sigh, he climbs on to the chair with as much dignity as he can. (It’s not a lot).

This feels like a test, he concludes. Its slightly cruel - he’s legitimately out of breath and aching, and his hands that have been shaking more and more as time went on are in a full tremble, making the climb more awkward than it has to be. What they’re testing him for, is another thing. Temperament, perhaps?

He meets their eyes calmly, and watches closely for any reaction, the might shed a light on their motives. The Healer is the most difficult to read, a competent jovial mask impenetrable by anything short of Chakra sensing. How he misses Chakra sensing. His Head of House is equally unreadable. It’s only McGonagall that’s slightly transparent. And she’s spitting mad. _Hmm_.

He settles in the seat, and relaxes his muscles as best he can, tucking his hands in his sleeves. He’s not ashamed of his trembling hands, but there’s no need to make a spectacle. “Yes, I have a substantial binder, that the healers prepared. I was instructed to follow a specialized diet that will complement the heavy regiment of potions that I am prescribed. And, of course, I am not to use magic for at least three weeks.”

The shrunken satchel hands off his wrist, one charm out of many on the enchanted bracelet. It’s all very high-class. He unclasps the tiny thing, and eyes the table with a bit of exasperation. With an internal grumble - what exactly are they watching for? - he slips off his too-high seat and walks to the table. The table is about a meter high. Itachi is about 110,120 cm tall. It’s all _very_ demeaning. He places the shrunken bracelet on the table as best he can under the circumstances and turns to his - significantly more adequately sized chair. It’s McGonagall, he’s sure. The other two want to see him react, want to see what he will do.

Well, good for them. Itachi has other plans.

“I have another item I want to bring up.”

“Oh?” Says Woodward. Alright, so he’s a bit annoyed. She’s deserved the loss of title.

“Indeed. Mister Lupin. What is being done about his - situation?”

His Head of House is blank, as is the healer. He can’t help but send her a faintly disgusted look. It’s Lady McGonagall that looks slightly - betrayed of all things?

“Mister Lupin is perfectly fine, mister Black. He is, frankly, none of your concern.”

He might have a problem with his Head of House.

“I am making it my concern, with all due respect, Professor. Either you handle it or I will. My situation, as complicated as it might be, still leaves me with a select few advantages. Direct access to a competent Auror team, for example.”

“Mister Black.” Hisses McGonagall, having apparently had enough. “I am severely disappointed in you. To think, someone in your circumstance would judge -”

His blood is slowly heating, and his impassive facade is cracking. The day has been harrowing, he’s stuck in a boarding school, and these people think themselves fit to judge him? Who gave them the right -

“It is precisely my circumstance _Madam_ that drives me to speak. If you think I will allow a child to be abused, and with Dark Magic no less, you do not know me very well, or the extent I am willing to go if pushed. So, _Madam_ , do not push me.”

A tense silence falls on the room, and Itachi - well, the rational part of his brain is in equal parts horrified and righteous. They all have their lines, and this is Itachi. He will not be a party to child abuse. He was once, in another life, and he will not be again.

“I think -”

Itachi bares his teeth at the neutral/potential-enemy. “I know what Dark Magic damage looks like, Professor. You will not convince me those scars are anything but.” The disgusted glance he sends at the Healer - who he brought in specifically to be on his side - is speaking enough to not have to waste words.

It’s to McGonagall that he speaks to, now. “As Mister Lupin’s Head of House, you stand in loco parentis. You can help.”

The change in demeanour is - odd. Instead of angrier, Lady McGonagall - brightens, and something between pride and vindication lights her features up.

“Your concern does you credit, Mister Black. I see your placement was just. Now, let me assure you, Mister Lupin is in no way abused by his parents. I will swear on my magic to that effect.”

Itachi narrows his eyes. The witch knows something. “It doesn’t count if they stand back and let the abuse happen. That boy is mauled. He’s malnourished. His lacerations are barely closing, and are presumably magic-resistant. Judging by the amount and layering of the scars, this has been going on for years. That paints a picture, Professor. I cannot - You cannot ask me to-”

Professor McGonagall smiles (!) at him. “Let me rephrase, then. I know what ails Mister Lupin, and it’s not something any of us here can help. I will not violate his privacy further. Know his parents are doing everything and anything for their son, to their considerable detriment.”

Itachi slumps back slightly, still damn angry, but realizing that, perhaps -

“I apologize, professors, Healer.” He says after a long minute. “I may have jumped to conclusions.”

“Perfectly understandable.” Says McGonagall firmly, eying her two colleagues with something complicated in her expression.

“Nevertheless, I am truly sorry. Mister Snape, is in a similar boat, I assume?”

The Professor stiffens, and the relief sours in his belly.

“Ah. You haven’t noticed. The boy was strangled. Recently. Today. His wrists are bruised. He moves in a way that indicates - difficulty. An adult did this. Judging by his behaviour, I would say he is used to hiding such things. Children often do.”

“I see.” Says Woodward, still perfectly blank. “Thank you for bringing it to our attention. Necessary steps will be taken.” She pauses briefly, obviously looking him over, and coming to her conclusions.

“I will be honest with you, Mister Black. I was against you attending Hogwarts this year.”

Itachi blinks, a slow succession of flutters. Is he supposed to - reply?

“It was nothing personal, you understand. Without knowing you, it seemed to me you were a volatile child, driven to violence by eminently understandable reasons. I feared that your trauma is still too fresh, to allow you to function in an academic setting without hurting someone else, or yourself, by accident.”

For a long moment, Itachi draws a blank. He tilts his head. “I assure you, Madam, I will not attack first. Ever. Words will not drive me to violence. I will retaliate if I must. But I will not harm a schoolchild unless I am compelled to it by a considerable force.”

Woodward nods her head briskly. “That remains to be seen, Mister Black. I will take your words into account, of course. But you underestimate the pressure you will be under. I admit you are an uncommonly even-tempered child and a self-possessed one. I would nonetheless recommend you delay your schooling. You can test out of your classes if you would prefer, which would account for the time lost.”

“That is not an option, Professor.” He says, trying to show the truth of it on his face. There is no point in being anything but honest with these witches. “This - attack - came at a bad time. I was named Heir Black only a week ago. You understand Heir Black cannot be too unstable for Hogwarts. Heir Black is beyond that.” He pauses for a moment. “My younger brother would be the next Heir Black if I am judged unsuitable. I would do almost anything to prevent that from happening.”

Woodward watches him with an unhappy frown and a sort of baffled lack of understanding. She turns to her colleague. “Minerva, does that make sense?”

McGonagall’s eyes flash. “More than I would like. Mister Black is in an impressive cage. He claimed a lofty title and now must defend it. Previous Heir Black, as it happens, was Orion Black. I think the situation is clear from there.”

Woodward hisses out a sigh. It’s an odd sound, like wind blowing through old wood, a cracking, wheezing sound. “I don’t like it. It’s difficult to judge the lesser of two evils, here. But, I must remain impartial. If you are certain you must attend, and that you are capable of it, then it will be so. And the first student you maim accidentally will see you suspended until a team of mind-healers say you’re fit for an academic environment. Do we have an agreement?”

He bows deeply to the Professor, an odd move from his sitting position. “Thank you, Professor. We are in agreement. The moment you judge me to be unstable, or incapable of handling myself, I will withdraw from school voluntarily and without complaint.”

“And what do you require of me?” Says the Healer. He jumps a little, having somehow lost her from his attention. Her voice is - hmm. Also not English, he doesn’t think. The r’s are too round, the words to nasal. All the letters, actually, are distinctly fuller and with a very alien twang. Hmm.

He tries to arrange his face in the most harmless, childish smile. (It is by far his least successful mask. There’s something about the cold of his grey eyes and ever-darkening rings around his eyes that can’t do childish. Quietly tragic, yes. Mournfully victorian, absolutely. But childish? Not a chance.) “If I may be frank, I thought to secure myself an ally, in case Mister Lupin’s case was - questioned.”

She looks at him for a long moment, conveying her absolute lack of patience without so much as a twitch. “I am familiar with Mister Lupin’s case in its entirety. I do the same with Mister Snape’s soon enough. What I am not familiar with, is your case, Mister Black.”

Ah shit.

“That is… not… important?” He tries. “A team of Medics has already treated me?”

“Nice try, child.” Says the Healer. “Now, we can do this now, or we can do it later when I drag you to the Hospital Wing. I suggest we do it now.”

He looks at McGonagall and Woodward pleadingly - they are unmoved.

“Alright.” He sighs. “Where do you want to begin.” He pauses for a moment. “I don’t know how much I am allowed to tell you. Legally. The case is ongoing. I don’t want to jeopardize it in any way.”

After a quick _Tempus_ \- just over 1900 - the Healer hums. “Understandable. How do you suggest we proceed? Can you describe the - effects on your body, without mentioning the events?”

He mulls it over for a moment. “I can do that. Alternatively, if you feel that you require more information, I can ask Auror Shacklebolt to schedule a meeting with you. He would be in aware of what may be released to the public.”

The Healer exchanges a charged look with the other two Professors. “Agreed.”

He looks at his Head of House for approval, wise to the ways of those in authority. Chain of command is not easily circumvented. In this case, it’s Headmaster, then Head of House, then Deputy Headmistress, then the Professors, and last is the healer and the miscellaneous staff. He gets his nod.

“Most of the damage is due to a prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus curse.” Let’s start with a bang, why not. Indeed, the witches are too professional to gasp, but their shock is still apparent in white knuckles and tight lips. “The residual nerve damage has proven to be difficult to manage.”

He pauses, untucks his hands from his sleeves. He doesn’t need to explain further. His hand trembles to the point where writing will prove to be difficult.

“Secondary worry is the magical exhaustion. I had, ah, spent nearly the entirety of my magical core due to - reasons I cannot disclose. The healers ordered no magic use for a couple of weeks. Other than some minor physical injuries, that’s mostly that.”

“Everything is relevant, Mister Black.”

Itachi sighs internally. “I am honestly not exactly certain. I was told there was mechanical damage to the tongue and jaw, resulting in most of my jawbone and teeth being re-grown. Mechanical damage to the skull that led to a concussion. I think most of that was fixed with spellwork, and skele-gro wasn’t used at all. Skin and some flesh on my hands was re-grown. I think that about covers it.”

The silence on the room is slightly more oppressive, now. Which, yeah, is fair. He survived, but the margin was slim. It will likely hit him soon, the absurdity of his near-death. He’s been deep into a problem-solving mindset ever since he woke up. He had almost left Regulus and Kreacher.

Not now.

“You will not reconsider?” Asks Woodward in the silence. “You insist on attending classes? With injuries that severe, nobody would fault you.”

“I must try. “ A pause. “I want to try.” Huh, look at that - there is more truth there than he thought.

“So be it. Your Professors will be notified.”

McGonagall shifts in her seat and leans forward slightly. “This trial - you know what to expect, I hope? We cannot shield you from the attention of your peers.”

“The children, Professor, are the least of my worries.” He says with complete honesty.

“Your courage is to be commended. If not your common sense.” Says Woodward. For the first time, her firm professional tone wavers with something - a twinge of humour perhaps?

“You’ve taught a number of Blacks, Professor. I can’t imagine we’re blessed with an overabundance of common sense.” He says with a small, honest smile.

This conversation has ended up being much more pleasant than he feared.

* * *


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions

The entrance to the common room is just as maniacally whimsical as the rest of the Castle. A stack of barrels - entirely too conspicuous to be anything but false - stands in a corner. The second one to the left is false and tapping a correct sequence on it opens the door. A mistake sees you drenched in vinegar. Because that is how one runs a school.

The wooden staircase extends in and out of the barrel, leading into an earthy room. He would love to focus on the wacky architecture, on the almost oppressive blanket of peace and comfort that lies over it, if not for all the children.

It’s impossible to tell how many there are, exactly. Less than a hundred, perhaps?

Amaterasu preserve him, what a wild fucking concept. A hundred children.

Numb, he stands behind the tall Professor. He should join the children, probably, but he doesn’t want to draw any attention to himself. Any more than what’s already there.

“Welcome, students, to Hufflepuff House. My name is Madara Woodward -”

His ears stop working as training kicks in. He blanks his mind, quietens his thoughts as best he can, and arranges his body into a loose, ready position. Is this - is this a fucking joke - _Madara_ -

Focus. Listen. Analyze.

“-your new home. Which brings me neatly to a point of discussion. Namely, one Sirius Orion Black.” She sends him a speaking glance, and he manages to paste a tense smile onto his face. _MadaraMadaraMadara_.

Hopefully, his sudden shift in attitude will be attributed to nerves. Not ideal - he’s just spent considerable amounts of time convincing them children don’t affect him one way or the other.

“Mister Black is one of your Housemates. One of your fellow Badgers. His path in our school will not be easy. I would be proud if you showed the qualities of your house, and extended the loyalty and hard-work we are known for to your classmate. I do not require it of you, I merely ask.”

She looks over her students, while Itachi does his level best to stay relaxed and appear nonthreatening. 

“I will however say this. I cannot order you to be kind. I can, however, order you to not be cruel. You will not harass him. You will not single him out. You will not bully him or give him preferential treatment. Your instructors will follow these same guidelines.”

It’s a nice speech. He’d appreciate it more if the speaker didn’t claim the name _Madara_. That makes everything a whole lot more complicated. If this world is a dumping ground for cursed Uchiha, that changes the game completely. If that is indeed the case, then the slow, careful game is over. He’s killing the woman, grabbing Regulus and Kreacher, and booking it to the Amazon jungle. Or throwing himself to the mercy of the Goblin Nation.

The Professors speaks some more - information about things of no consequence. Itachi will be joining no clubs. Entirely on automatic, he moves as casually possible from his (advantageous) position in the Professor’s blind-spot and into the crowd of children. Any attempt to remain inconspicuous is a waste of time. The children part around him like he’s diseased. On the upside, it makes it easier to find the nearest corner, and secure his back at least.

The speech drags on, ten minutes, then twenty. Many words are used to impart very little information. Where the first-years are to study, which study-groups they could join, and what procedures they need to follow to form their own study groups. Where they are allowed to go, when they are to be in bed, at which times are they allowed to go to the Kitchens for extra food.

He listens to the speech with half an ear, focusing instead on the matter at hand. Meaning his competent, professional Head of House could be an S-ranked maniac come to torment him the second time.

“Any questions?” Says Woodward finally.

Fear of public speaking and/or ridicule ties the children up in knots. Until he finds out if he will be murdering this witch, he will not ask her anything other than the very minimum.

“Your Prefects, by year.” A row of slightly older children files in behind the Professor with acceptable discipline. Two faces are recognizable. A girl - Carrol something. A boy - Moss. They rattle off their names - irrelevant for now - and stand quietly. The Professor nods her head sharply.

“The Prefects will handle most of your day to day concerns. You will be expected to elect a ‘speaker’ for your year. That speaker will be meeting with me on a weekly basis to report the happenings, with a focus on any potential problems or wishes. If you do not choose your representative responsibly another will be chosen for you. If you do not cooperate with your representative, you will be denied the privilege going forward. I assure you, that is not a place you want to find yourselves.”

* * *

There are eight boys in Hufflepuff this year. He takes a moment from shrieking about his Head of House being a villain come to cast an illusion onto the moon, to appreciate the sleeping arrangements.

Like most everything, he suspects this, too, is magic. The boys’ dorm consists of one nonagonal room, from which eight smaller rooms are extended. Really small - just room enough for a bed, a desk, a bookshelf and a wardrobe. The central room is a cosy thing, with a carpet as thick as his thigh and cushions strewn about carelessly. There are two wide bookshelves and a couple of arm-chairs.

“The bathroom is down the hall.” Recites the Prefect, a proper little scion of the Smith family that he failed to catch the name of. “The schedule is printed on the door. If you have a problem with the schedule, talk to a Prefect and we will accommodate you within reason.”

She points to the rooms. “Each of you will be assigned your own space. No specific Wards are set around that space. If you, for some reason, wish to change this, talk to a Prefect, preferably the seventh year Prefect, or Madam Woodward.”

She pauses for a moment and looks them over. She is traditional, after a fashion. A strange hybrid method of picking and choosing what to say to whom. Which - make a note of finding out what is the norm when it comes to greetings. There are quite a few Ancient and Noble heirs in Hogwarts at this time, after all. No Lords or Ladies, as far as he knows but Heirs, certainly. He is not that invested in the hierarchy for it’s own sake, but it does provide a nice distance. A pattern of interaction that his under-socialized, lunatic little heart desires.

So many questions to ask. And yet, he just wants to get to his room, hide behind curtains and call Kreacher.

“Black, Fawley.” Calls the Prefect, jarring him from his thoughts. “Madam Woodward has been informed about your - disagreement - and will either consider Perfect Moss’s punishment to be sufficient or will call on you to discuss the matter further. I highly recommend,” she sends an irritated look to the blond, “that you keep the peace. Yes, Fawley, I mean you. Black has, Merlin help us, been the model of civility.”

“If that is all, gentlemen, I leave you to your introductions.”

The Prefect leaves, and Itachi curses inwardly. She had to say the cursed word‘introductions’ and now he will be kept from his bed even further.

“Right.” Says one of the boys - what was his name - Minch - Malch? “My name is Paul, Paul Marsch.” Newly named Marsch - not a Wizarding name, that - is, well, unremarkable. Pretty in the way of children, brown-haired and brown-eyed, neither skinny nor fat, neither tall nor short. His wand - dark, longish, polished, no handle - sticks from his pocket in a way that makes Itachi cringe. “I am - glad to meet you?”

Fawley is next - because say what you will, but Fawley is not what one might call shy. “I’m Preston, Preston Fawley. I am a muggle-raised Halfblood,” he pauses, sending a disgusted look his way. Itachi blinks back, in the tried and true manner of bovines everywhere. “I live in Manchester, and I look forward to Charms.”

“Noah Young,” says a pale, pale boy, with dark-red hair and the sort of protruding ears and a wide jaw that he will grow into in a couple of years, but for now looks a bit ridiculous. “I was born in Dublin, but I grew up in London.” His voice is soft, a bit shaky. “I, uh, I am Muggle-born? Sorry, is that how introductions are done in the Wizarding world?”

“Only if there are Pureblood supremacists around.” Sneers Fawley, and Itachi really can’t quite suppress a smile in time. The kid is relentless. He reminds him of Sasuke’s little boyfriend, actually.

“That is possibly my cue.” He says mildly. “My name is Sirius Black, and as some of you may know, I am the Heir to House Black.” He scans his audience carefully, and yeah, Young doesn’t have the first clue about what that means. Neither does the dark-skinned little fawn hiding in the back. “The title is largely immaterial, in Hogwarts.” He addresses the two likely Muggleborns. “It is comparable to Muggle Peerage. My family is fairly highly placed.”

“Blacks are Dark and don’t believe a word he says otherwise.” Says Fawley. “How or why he ended up here is beyond me, but it will end badly. He belongs with the Slytherins like the rest of his slimy family.”

What a prickly little creature. Best not address him directly. The last thing he wants is to get into an actual altercation with the boy.

“While the spirit of Fawley’s statement is untrue, he did raise one true point. My family has thusfar been exclusively in Slytherin. I can’t imagine, however, that this information is of any interest to you?”

The children - sans fuming Fawley - huff in laughter. They’re not really amused, but it’s a way of expelling some of the pent up nervousness. “I am Andrew Clarke.” Says the fawn in the back. The boy has bronze skin and light hazel eyes that look golden in the faux-torch light. “I don’t understand. You are telling us to judge Sirius for his family because he will do the same to us?” The boy’s voice is oddly musical, a thrilling soprano that Sage-willing won’t break into something less appealing in a few years.

“You’re Muggleborn,” says Fawley, clenching his fists. “Blacks hate folk like you. They think you stole magic from Purebloods and should all be killed for it.”

“For your information,” says Clarke. “I am a Halfblood. Not that it is any business of yours.” He looks between the fuming (apparent) bully and the quiet skinny almost-cripple and it's clear he doesn’t think Sirius is the threat here. It would be so easy to just - let them believe it. But - he sighs - again, these children are not his responsibility, but. But. He is the adult here. And they do need to learn.

“He’s not wrong.” He says. “Not about me, of course. He’s definitely wrong about me. I care very little about blood, other than keeping my own where it is. But a lot of my family are - well. Frightfully intolerant, is the mildest possible term for it. In muggle culture, they would be comparable to sympathizers of the National Socialist Party in Germany a while back.”

All the boys are visibly taken aback by his words, and none more than Fawley.

“See!” He crows, victorious. “He admits it! I am telling you he is no good. People like him shouldn’t even be allowed in Hogwarts if you ask me!”

That is the last straw for another boy - a dirty blonde, gangly fellow with a long face and noticeably prominent eyebrows. “Nobody asked you,” he says, as sharply as an eleven-year-old coltish boy can be. It works, especially with the odd accent. “God, you sound just like them. The Purebloods.” He huffs and settles his shoulders angrily. “Name’s Scott, Scott Cole. I am a Halfblood, which is a stupid thing to include into an introduction Fawley, and something I would expect from the bloody toff over there.”

“Merry meet,” says Itachi with a faint smile.

“What does that mean?” Asks Clarke, golden eyes flashing. “No Fawley,” he says smoothly. “I am asking Sirius.”

Itachi ignores Fawley’s hiss of outrage and looks at Clarke. “We have time for the short answer only, I am afraid. I would like to sleep as soon as possible. The short answer is that among the Wizarding population, there is a segment that identifies as Traditionalists. You could think of them as the Muggle Tory Party, in a way. The Traditionalists are disproportionally from the Peerage - what some call the Sacred Twenty-Eight - but a fair number of other Noble Houses also identify with it. The rules are predictably involved, but ‘Merry Meet’ is the standard greeting.”

“How do you know so much about muggles?” Asks another boy. “Hi, I’m Robert Kimball, sorry to interrupt. I was just curious - most Pureblood wouldn’t know about the Tories and all that.”

“I read.” He says as dryly as possible. “Muggle political and philosophical thought is much more interesting than the Wizarding one, I have found.”

“Your parents made you read Muggle books?” Asks Kimball with entirely justifiable scepticism in his voice.

Itachi can't help but picture Walburga Black reading about Muggle politics and strangles his snort of laughter as best he can. “My parents specifically,” he says, still keeping his voice dry. “Are the closest any of you is likely to come to a real-life Nazi.” He pauses, considering whether he should add something as a qualifier. Nah, that covers it pretty much. “We were never close.” He adds. “And they are currently in the custody of the DMLE. Law enforcement.”

“Wow,” says the last boy, with tight black curls, and a pouty mouth that is androgynous enough to almost pass as a Noble brat, if his features weren’t so unusual. Pretty but unusual. “That sounds intense. Nazi parents. Like a movie.”

It’s Itachi’s turn to blink incomprehensibly. Movie? The boy misunderstands him. “Oh, pardon me, I am Timothy Warnock, but everyone calls me Tim.” 

The name tickles something in the back of his mind, erasing any thought of muggle technology. “Warnock,” he says slowly. A curious sort of dread spreads on Timothy’s face. “Do excuse me, this is frightfully rude, but - I can’t quite place your name - but -”

“Well,” says the boy. “I’m sure it’s nothing, it’s a common enough name.”

“No, no,” he says trying to get some clues from the boy futilely. “I am sure I read something -”

“Oh come now -”

“Mary!” He says triumphantly. “Mary Warnock.”

The boy - Timothy - droops. “Aren’t you young for all that stuff?” He says plaintively. “My mum’s fans are all old.”

“Stuff and nonsense.” He says, eyeing the boy with even more attention now. “Your mother is a brilliant lady. You should be proud.”

“I mean,” says the boy. “I am proud of course. But it’s all so boring.”

“Pardon me,” says Clarke, “I grew up in London, Muggle London that is, and I have never heard of Ms Warnock.”

“You wouldn’t.” Says Timothy. “She’s not famous or anything. She’s a teacher.”

“She’s a philosopher.” Corrects Itachi smoothly. “And a published author of some renown.”

“So you, Black,” Says Clarke, in an oddly declarative fashion, as if confirming something,“you are a fan of philosophy?”

Itachi eyes the golden-eyed boy consideringly. “I am no scholar if that is your meaning. But humans - puzzle me. Philosophy has gone a long way in explaining why humans act the way they do.”

“Right, right,” nods Clarke, obviously not listening too closely. “And you,” he says, nodding to Fawley, “think he is a - racist?”

“He’s a Black,” seethes Fawley. “You don’t know these people. They are rotten, all of them.”

“Seems to me he’s a pretty relaxed kid,” says Young. “You’ve been insulting him for hours now, and he hasn’t so much as said an unkind word to you, or anyone else.” Who is the bigot here, hangs in the air. Itachi is in equal parts charmed by the open-mindedness of these children and worried for their common sense.

“Fawley is not wrong to be cautious.” He says, drawing seven sets of eyes to him. “My family is - complicated. If it were one of my cousins here, his warnings would have been warranted.” He sends the fuming boy a slightly fond look. “He is perhaps a bit inflexible in his views, but that is not in itself a fault.”

The boy opens his mouth to argue but closes it again when Itachi’s eyes sharpen. “Now, I do apologize, but my day has been long, and my bed awaits. Merry part.”

Some of the children - notably the Muggleborn children, which is all sorts of ironic, parrot the greeting back at him, and he can hear the discussion gain intensity after he leaves.

They’re good kids, he thinks as he’s closing the thick curtain behind himself. All sound cuts off - a silencing spell - and blessed silence finally envelops him.

Now, then. He unshrinks his luggage with a tap of his wand, wincing slightly at the shriek of his body - it seems even that is too much magic on his battered body. Wonderful.

“Kreacher,” he says. “If you have a free moment-”

-pop-

Kreacher’s eyes are even bigger in his face than usual, and his frame trembles with barely contained nervous energy. “Thank the Lady,” he says, eyes cataloguing every tremble of Itachi’s hands, every hair out of place. “Kreacher was worried.”

“Well,” he says, “you might as well continue to do so. Because this Heir of Noble and Ancient House of Black has been sorted into Hufflepuff.”

“Oh, we know,” says Kreacher with something approaching a smile. “Lord Black has eyes in the Castle.” He shuffles closer to Itachi, who spreads his arms plaintively. He’s had a stressful evening, alright, and he Goddamn deserves a cuddle.

“Painted eyes, I would assume.” Says Itachi, basking in his parent’s head pats.

“Yes. Lord Phineas Nigellus Black organized a very up-to-date information network. Your every move will be tracked.”

“Need I worry about my position in Grandfather’s good graces?”

“We all had suspicions, child.” He can’t see Kreacher’s face, but the blend of fond and exasperated is very familiar by this point. “Lord Black is not surprised.”

“And-”

Kreacher sighs. “Our little star is - struggling. Lord Black has hired a Mind Healer.”

Relief punches through him and even half of the churning stress evaporates from his system. “Oh thank the Lady,” he says.

“There was talk,” Kreacher says carefully, “of you needing something similar.”

No - you think?

“We are all aware how insane I am,” he says, Suna-dry. “Far be it from me to protest some professional help. It might even help relax some of the faculty.”

The faculty. Madara. MadaraMadaraMadara.

“My Head of House. Could prove to be a problem.” He says. His words are choppy things, barely gritted out. He had spoken about his previous life, his family knows the bare strokes of it. He has not mentioned Madara, other than in very wide strokes. “I will write a letter to Lord Black about it. Could you deliver it to me? I dare not send an owl.”

“Of course, child.” Kreacher pauses his stroking for a brief moment. “What happened?”

“Nothing - yet.” He says. “Initially she struck me as imminently capable. Fair, balanced, tough. Nevertheless - I have my suspicions. She could be like me. A soul out of place.”

“You are no such thing.” Snaps Kreacher. “You are exactly where you need to be. Your soul is home, child. Never think otherwise.”

“As you say.” It’s a nice sentiment. Foolish, but nice.

* * *

Dear Lord Black,

Since you are already aware that I have been sorted into Hufflepuff House, I will write no more of it. It is not what I was expecting, but Hogwarts has a way of upending one’s expectations.

In a way, the sorting is beneficial. For all that the Hufflepuff is unused to someone of my background, they have so far displayed the characteristics of their House. The children have been more welcoming than is perhaps warranted.

I write to you to inquire about one of my Professors. If you haven’t already done so, could you provide me with the background research on my Head of House, one Lady Madara Woodward? She has not displayed any ill-will towards me, but I require some additional assurances.

I have not written to Regulus yet - I do not know if my missives would be welcome. If you think I am in error, please let me know.

I remain,

Your caring grandson,

Sirius Black

Heir of Noble and Ancient House of Black

* * *

He doesn’t have to wait long for a reply. Kreacher pops back with a letter and a folder, less than thirty minutes later.

* * *

Dear Sirius,

In regards to your inquiry, I have attached the abridged notes of the lecturer in question that my investigators have compiled. If you have any specific questions, I will certainly look into the matter.

As for your sorting, I am in no way surprised. If anything, I am gratified you condescended to be sorted at all. My Lady Wife was convinced you would refuse.

Regulus is scheduled to start his seasons with the best Mind Healer I could find, that would agree to an Unbreakable Vow to keep my grandson’s confidences. Your paranoia, child, has infected your brother. As it is a wise practice that might help you survive the endless stunts you are determined to pull, I see no reason to discourage it. Healer Rosier, a distant cousin to Lord Rosier, comes highly recommended. I will write to your professors at Hogwarts to organize your own meetings with Healer Rosier at the end of the week.

Look after yourself, child.

Your Grandfather

Lord Arcturus Black

Lord of Noble and Ancient House of Black

* * *

Professor Madara Woodward

Born name: Inga Ozola

Birthdate: Thursday, September 19th, 1861

Birthplace: Kingdom of Livonia

Born into a family of Healers, father Jūlijs Ozola and mother Līna Ozola, nee Kalnina. Parents moved to Britain with Inga, during the civil unrest in Livonia. Jūlijs worked in St Mungos and Līna worked in the Auror department, as their resident medi-witch. Both lost their lives in the Grindelwald wars.

Career

  * Inga Ozola did not attend Hogwarts, and got her certification in Herbology at the Durmstrang Institute, after an apprenticeship with Professor Elise Albrecht.
  * From 1901-1917, walked the “Path of Yelena”, which merited her several invitations by the Livonian Council to return to her mother country. Refused all offers (presumably because of the fate of missing (?) siblings) and returned to Britain.
  * From 1918 until 1922 she worked to establish a new wing of the St. Mungos Greenhouses (named Jelena’s Garden).
  * Underwent the Name of Power ritual in 1923, and took the name Madara Woodward
  * Walked the “Path of Yelena” from 1923 until 1939
  * Was awarded honorary Mastery in Healing by St Mungos Hospital upon her return to Britain in 1939
  * Fought in the Grindelwald Wars, from 1939 until 1945, as a front-line healer. Both of her parents perished in the wars.
  * Accepted the position of Herbology Professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in 1947
  * Publishes several treatises on Healing
  * Most notable achievement in her chosen field of Herbology was the development of a series of charms to allow for quick propagation of the famous herb Capricious Cleavers. She was nominated for the Order of Merlin, 3rd class, which she refused.



Personal life

There are no notable witches or wizards connected to the Professor. She doesn’t have any progeny, nor many close friends. Notable is her close relationship with the Centaur Herd that inhabit the forests around Hogwarts Academy. It is speculated it is precisely the Herds that have led the famous healer to teach at Hogwarts.

* * *

Well now. Itachi finishes pouring over the document, and while the brief overview raises quite a few questions, it does go a long way in calming him. His insane ancestor was many things, but a healer was not one of them. Just by briefly looking at the Professor’s life, it’s clear - she cannot be the megalomaniac of before. What exactly the ‘Path of Jelena’ is, he doesn’t know, but Madara would never spend thirty-two years in obscurity for any reason.

No, whatever the unfortunate circumstance of her name is, it is by all accounts no more than a misunderstanding.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> —> it really is a misunderstanding, you guys. I just - I am trash, and there is a Latvian name Madara and yeah I couldn’t resist. 
> 
> —> Helen Mary Warnock is an ethicist of some renown irl. She doesnt have a son Timothy, as it happens, but stealing real people and smushing them in is practically part and parcel of writing HP fiction 
> 
> —> The worldbuildign stuff will be explained later on in the fic. If you want, I can include a separate fic, to compile the details as we go, like I did in my other fics? Like, class lists, professors, famous witches and wizards and so on.


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Classes

It’s 6.45 by the time he finishes with the morning ablutions, and he fully expects to be the first one from the lot. Not so. Two boys sprawl over the cushions, chatting animatedly. There are Timothy-whose-mother-is-thrilling and Clarke-with-the-golden-eyes. 

“Merry meet.”He keeps his voice low, out of respect, but also because it’s just entirely too early to be energetic in any way.

“Sirius, hi,” chirps Timothy. “Oh, no, sorry, merry meet!” He bows, kind of. He bends his body at the waist and bobs a little in the air, before raising with a blinding grin.

“You don’t need to use traditional greetings.” Itachi’s voice smooths from sleep-hoarse into look-at-that-beautiful-baby-bird. “I certainly do not expect it. Just as you do not require me to change my own.”

“Well, yeah, of course I don’t have to. But! My Da always says I should use the local customs when I travel abroad.”

Huh. That is a very good analogy. “You must have read some excellent literature before coming to Hogwarts. Even with that in mind, though, the Traditionalists are only a segment of the Wizarding population. The Progressives do not use the same greetings. Indeed, I would assume many find them offensive.”

“They do.” Says Clarke. “In most cases, I would too.”

“Wha—why?” Asks Timothy.

“Most of the people who use those words, wouldn’t even lower themselves to talk to me,” Clarke says. “The words become slurs in their mouths. The old Purebloods, they can make you feel like a flea with nothing more than a well-placed ‘merry part’.”

Hold on—didn’t the boy ask last night—never mind. Leave that for later.

“Wow,” says Timothy. “That’s rough. Even the old bats at my dad’s school aren’t that bad.”

“You have no idea.” Says Itachi with feeling. “I will head up to breakfast, I think.”

“I will join you.” Says Clarke. “Tim?”

“Oh, sorry, no.” The boy stumbles over his words, in a hurry to explain. “I promised I’d wait for Noah, and Rob also asked to come upstairs with us.”

“Very well,” hums Itachi. “Merry part.”

“Merry part!” Trills the adorable fucking child. Itachi despairs for a long moment, before gathering his composure and going outside.

They make their way out of the mostly empty Common Room, and out of the false barrel without issue, and are braving the corridors of Hogwarts without an escort. (Traumatized or not, a Shinobi does not lose his situational awareness just like that. He knows at least the outline of the path they took here, and this path? Completely different. Fucking magic castles.)

“You haven’t been around many people, have you?” Says Clarke, ostensibly to the air.

What an odd way to start a conversation. “Not really, no. Our Presentations were big events, but other than that we haven’t really left the house until my Hogwarts letter came.”

“Purebloods,” Clarke says, shaking his head a bit.

Good enough as openings go.

“Why did you ask—last night, about Traditionalism. You’ve obviously spent some time in the Wizarding world.”

Clarke cuts his eyes at him, considering. “Sorry about that. I was testing you, I suppose.”

Clever.

“Not a bad approach.” Says Itachi. “A bit obvious perhaps, but it wouldn’t have mattered, one way or another.”

“Sorry about your parents.” Says Clarke a few minutes later. They are still roaming the corridors fruitlessly and pangs of hunger are starting to make themselves known. “That was really rude of Fawley, to go after you like that.”

Itachi shrugs a little, grateful the other boy isn’t insisting on eye-contact. It’s much easier to talk like this, to the air. “My parents deserve what is coming to them.” He pauses for a brief moment. “Grandfather will see them thrown in the deepest pits of Azkaban. As for Fawley, whatever problem he has with me, it seems personal.”

“A lot of people dislike your family out of personal reasons. That doesn’t mean they get to badger you.”

“He will get over it.”

Clarke cuts his eyes to him for a moment and looks away. “It doesn’t bother you? That everybody talks so badly about your family?”

Goddamn, this kid asks some hard questions. What can he even say? House of Black is powerful enough and wealthy enough and well-warded enough that they don’t need to bother with the opinions of the working class? A lot of my family are extremists? You think I don’t care now, but if anyone said an unkind thing about Regulus I would tear them into itty bitty pieces?

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.” He settles on. “Not from the children at least.”

“What about the Prophet?”

The Prophet. A gossip rag it might be, but in Itachi’s book, the press is such a novel concept he doesn’t begrudge them their sensationalist nature.

“I don’t read the Prophet.” He says. “And even if I did, I likely wouldn’t care.”

“Right.” Says Clarke, with a fair bit of scepticism.

Again - what can he even say? The Prophet prints what would sell. “It’s complicated,” he says lamely. “I can’t fathom why so many people would want to read that, but if they do, I can’t stop them. If that is the level of journalism they would accept, then that’s fine by me.”

“You talk like an old man, has anyone ever told you?” Says Clarke. “No, really, I’ve never met such a serious kid in my entire life.”

“And you’re really curious,” says Itachi. “Why so much interest in me?”

“You’re kidding?” Says Fawley. “Why so much interest—Sirius, you are the most talked-about kid in Britain. The whole school is talking about you and will continue to do so. You were in the Prophet for the past year.”

“What, really?” He says, taken aback. “I understand now, but I never even left the Black property until my Hogwarts letter came.”

“Your Grandfather,” says Clarke slowly. “Your Grandfather changed the laws so you and your brother can have Gringotts vaults. That was big news, Sirius. Super big news. My parents were talking about it for months.”

“Oh, yes,” He says. “I forgot about that.”

Clarke clenches his jaw a little. “No need to rub our noses in it,” he says a little sullenly.

Children.

“It wasn’t anything glamorous, you know. My brother and I needed to have free access to money, so we could stay away from our parents. The Nazis in prison, remember?”

“Oh,” says Clarke. “Oh, damn. Sorry.”

Itachi flaps his hand. “It’s fine.”

The conversation pauses, for which Itachi is desperately grateful for. Clarke—Andrew—is a sweet child, curious and intelligent, but Itachi hasn’t talked so much to someone outside his family since Riddle.

“I think we’re here,” says Clarke a few minutes later. “Now just turn right and—”

Indeed the doors to the Hall are there. Instead of the small side-door, they take the large, double-sided monstrosity of a gate, leading to a half-full room. The Professors are all there, as are all the Prefects, he’s pretty certain.

“I think this is your seat,” says Clarke, pointing to a chair with a little sign with a constellation on it. Around it is a smattering of decidedly less kid-friendly, and more health-oriented food. Lots of steamed vegetables, softly boiled eggs, plain cooked chicken. Hospital food.

He eyes the sugar-laden breakfast table the other children are helping themselves to and suppresses a sigh. That boy is dipping a banana in chocolate, seethes a part of his brain. There are pies and cakes everywhere, and you get to chew on carrots!

“Healers orders, yeah?” Says Clarke, with a small grimace. “That sucks.”

“Indeed.” He says icily, eying his sugar-free offerings.

* * *

He is left to eat in peace, thank the Gods, for all that he has to force the food down. The rest of his classmates—including the girl-children—file in soon. There are fifteen Hufflepuffs in his year, and his mind shrieks at him. They’re not your responsibility, he chants. They’re not your responsibility.

The Prefects hand out their time-tables with no fuss. Conspicuously, there are no maps. He knew it. The fucking castle is changing on them.

“So Sirius,” Timothy chirps, having sat two seats away from him. “Are you looking forward to classes?”

Sage help him.

“I am not sure.” He says. “I find Potions very interesting. And History of Magic sounds like a thrilling subject. How about yourself?”

“Who, me?” Timothy spreads his arms wide, rattling in excitement. “Everything! It’s a magic school!”

His lips twitch, and something in him unwinds a bit at the show of cheer. This world can’t be that bad, if children are this innocent, still.

“What about the rest of you guys?” Says Timothy. “What about you, Robin?”

A girl with short brown hair and a chin sharp enough to cut raises her eyes from her meal. “Oh, well,” she says, a bit taken aback to be in the centre of attention all of a sudden. “Charms, I think.”

Itachi shrinks in his seat a bit, as the children chatter around him. He should really introduce himself. And he will. Just. Not now.

The children quiet right down, however, eyes trained at someone behind him. With a fair bit of dread, he turns around--

“Sirius!” Sing-songs Frank. “Merry meet.”

“Merry meet, Frank,” he says with some exasperation.

“I missed you on the train.” Frank’s eyes flash with something other than humour.

“My apologies. I was, ah, gathering myself.”

“Too true, too true.” He says airily, sharp eyes cataloguing every inch of him. “I was concerned, one might say. All my letters returned unopened. And the Prophet, well.”

Ah.

“It’s a bit of a long story,” Itachi says. “I was - behind some pretty strong wards in the past few days.”

“Right, right,” Hums Frank. “I won’t keep you too long, don’t worry. But tonight, after class, I will be monopolizing you for at least an hour or two.”

There is no getting out of this one. “Of course,” he says, defeated. “You’re the Head Boy, you know the Castle. Just pick me up after dinner.”

“Smashing.” Franks smile is as blinding as the rest of him.

“Frank, before I forget,” he says. “Have you met the first years?”

“I have my eye on baby-Potter, don’t worry your pretty little head.”

“Pretty—merciful Lady, no, I didn’t mean James.” He pauses for a bit, considering. “Although, yes, do keep an eye out for him. He will be a hellion, I can tell. But just—keep an eye out for the first-years?” He shouldn’t have started this topic in the open, but his mouth ran away from him. These children are dragging him down to their level, Sage wept.

Frank nods, a serious look flashing across his face, before tipping back into forceful joviality. “Of course, that’s what I’m here for. Just, quick, before I leave you with your friends. Regulus is—fine, yes?”

“Regulus is hale and healthy,” he says a bit too forcefully. “With not a hair out of place.”

Frank closes his eyes for a moment before his merry facade is back in place “Well, then, everything is fine and dandy. Do tell him Mother misses his letters?”

Oh, wow, Regulus has been neglecting his correspondence with Lady Longbottom?

“It’s been a turbulent time,” he says diplomatically.

Frank eyes him a bit but allows the deflection. “Well, I’ll see you after dinner, then.”

“It’s a date,” he says, quirking his lips in a crooked smile.

Frank huffs at him but settles for reaching with his giant hands and straightening his tie. (A ridiculous, bright yellow tie that makes him look that much more sickly.) “Take care, Sirius. Merry part.”

“Merry part,” he says and turns back to -

A sea of curious eyes.

Goddamn it Frank.

* * *

“Soo—” Timothy says, as they’re walking to their first lesson of the day—Transfiguration, as it happens. “Who was that?”

Well, at least he had the patience to wait this long.

“I suppose you mean Frank?”

Timothy blinks at him, with dogged patience.

“Heir Franklin Longbottom,” he says, when it becomes clear he won’t get to avoid this conversation. “Heir to the House of Longbottom. He’s—a friend I suppose.”

“Isn’t he a bit old to be a student?”

Itachi’s lips twitch. “He’s a seventh-year.” An unnaturally tall seventh year.

“I wouldn’t think a Black would be friends with the Longbottom heir.” Says the girl—Robin. “Hi, I’m Robin. Robin Ashe.”

“Merry meet,” he says politely. Judging by her easy confidence, she’s likely a Pureblood, if not one he recognizes. “Frank is not one to be limited by what is expected of him.”

The girl blinks, but nods. There is really not much more to say about it, frankly.

“Do you know many Hogwarts students?” Asks Timothy.

Where is this classroom,? He cant deal with all these inquisitive children all the time.

“I wouldn’t say so. Mainly the people who run in similar circles, and most of them very briefly. My cousin Narcissa is in Slytherin, and she’s the only other Black in the school. There’s James, in Gryffindor, and I suppose I’ve briefly met the Morgan Heir and the Shafiq Heiress.”

“Really?” Asks Ashe. “There are quite a few Noble Purebloods in this generation. I thought you all knew each other.”

Itachi shrugs and is saved from answering by the arrival to the Transfiguration classroom. Thank the Sage.

Now—where to sit?

Clarke solves the dilemma by nudging him into a seat in the middle of the room and sitting next to him. Itachi blinks at him a bit, taken aback by the forwardness, but is handily ignored. Alright then.

* * *

They’re paired up with Ravenclaws for the lessons. There are exactly fifteen Ravenclaws, he notes. Fifteen Ravenclaws to fifteen Hufflepuffs. Not at all suspicious, magic hat.

“Sirius,” says Heir Morgan, with all the enthusiasm of a puddle of slime.

Adorable.

“Athelstan.” If he’s not mistaken—and he can’t imagine he has gotten so rusty to not be able to read an eleven-year-old civilian—that, there, is a truly antisocial child. Why his parents even insisted on formal education—well. That was a stupid question. His parents insisted on sending their antisocial heir to Hogwarts for the same reason Lord Black sent his half-dead, more-than-slightly-insane heir to Hogwarts. Because it is the Done Thing.

Best he can do for the poor boy is to let him be. A grace which is not afforded to him by the child that sits next to him—a dirty blonde girl with the look of an ambitious overachiever.

“Hi,” she says with the sort of determined cheer of a woman on a mission. “I am Patricia. What is your name?”

For a moment, Itachi blinks at her, entirely sure she cannot possibly be talking to him.

“Merry meet, Miss,” he says, fascinated against his will. “My name is Sirius Black.”

“Oh—how quaint.” She smiles—and it is a pretty smile, it has to be said. Morgan Heir droops slightly in his seat. “You talk the same way like Athelstan. Is that normal for you?”

“Yeah, Sirius, is that normal?” Says Clarke under his breath.

“I—do not follow,” he says, keeping the incredulous note from his voice by some miracle.

“You don’t talk like the rest of us do.” She says, mouth tilted into the same pretty smile. Her eyes are too intent for her to be completely friendly. She’s not antagonistic—but she might be in the future. A burning wish to prove herself, this one—how is she not in Slytherin?

“I have found the students here talk in a wide variety of accents.” There—perfectly polite and diplomatic.

She pouts(!). “Hmm, maybe. So you and Athelstan—how long have you been friends?”

That ends up being the final straw for the Morgan heir. “We’re not friends. I don’t have friends, Parry. Now if you could—”

Parry—that’s her last name. Finally—he can’t possibly call her ‘girl’.

“Don’t be rude, Athelstan. I’m just getting to know your friend—”

“Heir Morgan is correct, Miss Parry,” he says, a little amused, now. The girl-child is pretty, an extrovert, and an ambitious one at that. Itachi doesn’t know a whole lot about children—even less about civilian children—but he knows a dominance display when he sees one. “We are not friends. Simply acquaintances.”

Morgan sends him a flash of gratitude and he suppresses a smirk.

“Oh,” she says, faltering for a moment, before rallying. “Well, I’m sure you will be friends in no time. Why, I—”

The cat on the desk chooses that exact moment to transform into McGonagall, and Itachi barely manages to stop his hand from throwing the knife he keeps in his sleeve. There was not a single shimmer of illusion—not even a build-up of magic. Just—cat and then human.

“Welcome, students—”

* * *

Transfiguration, he re-affirms, is split into inanimate—fascinating, and animate—incomprehensible and possibly evil. Since they won’t be touching animate for a good few years to come, he stashes it into a medium-security pit in his mind and moves on.

Lunch whizzes by, filled with chattering children and sub-par flavourless food. His classmates are full of vim and vigour, and Itachi just—can’t. He’s not in a particularly bad mood, but the constant buzzing energy and hordes of children everywhere are causing tension to mount. Grandfather better have found a really good mind-healer because professional intervention is very much needed.

He does notice increased attention from the Slytherin part of the room. Enough snakes watch him with rapt attention, that he’d have to be dead and buried not to notice. He assumes it’s something to do with the mail arriving—or something to do with the Prophet. He doesn’t pay it much mind, even after his own classmates start sending him somewhat less evaluating and more pitying looks.

Potions are next, a four-hour block before dinner—and Frank. This, he looks forward to. If he can’t have Runes, then Potions are the next best thing on offer.

The class is with Slytherin this time, and Clarke doesn’t have the time to monopolize him. Shafiq girl—Esfir?—glides over, lips twisted into a sharkish smile.

She curtsies, smooth enough to make a maiko seethe. “Merry meet, Sirius.” Her smile is as practised as the rest of her, but he feels none of the exasperation like he had in the case of Perry. He’s, quite possibly, a filthy hypocrite. Perhaps the difference is largely cosmetic, but he appreciates Shafiq’s unabashed networking more than put-on friendliness.

“Merry meet,” he says, making up for the fact he can’t quite remember her name with a deep bow. “Are we to be partners.”

“We must.” She says, iron cording through her tone. “I would so like for us to become friends.”

He can’t quite make himself offer her his arm, but he can nod. “After you, then.” He turns to his classmates who stare at Shafiq with a mix of awe and terror. All except Fawley, oh, Great Lady, no—

“Filthy, slimy traitor,” says Fawley, and dooms them all. “Didn’t I tell you—”

Shafiq arches her brow. Eleven-year-olds should not be this poised. “Sirius, who is the gormless ape sneering at us?” She raises her hand. “I beg your pardon, let me rephrase. Why is the gormless ape sneering at us?”

Well, fuck. Words cannot express how badly he does not want to have this conversation. Unfortunately, Fawley may have found the absolute worst person to insult. Shafiq might be less wealthy, but they are certainly better connected than the Blacks are. More to the point, their Heiress is many, many times more ambitious. She is climbing the hierarchy aggressively, and cannot afford a suggestion of weakness.

When in doubt, flatter. She might be mollified yet. “I would apologize in his name if it were my place, gracious Lady. I assure you he did not mean to include you in the feud he is attempting to start with me.”

What little oxygen there was in the room disappears, and more than one Slytherin freezes or leans forward, depending on the relative level of schadenfreude. What were you thinking, you imbecile? Feud? An altogether appropriate choice of words. What next—a vow, perhaps? An honour-duel?

Shafiq is at least a little thrown, which distracts her from thirsting for the boy’s blood. “The half-blood child looks to start a feud. With the Ancient and Noble House of Black.” She says, voice a little faint.

“Fawley is harmless, really.” He says, a little desperate to change the topic. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying—it’s not appropriate to hold him to our traditions.”

He cuts his eyes to Clarke and tries to signal that he should shut Fawley up before he opens his fool mouth and digs them further into this hole.

“Shall we sit?” He offers his arm after all. His discomfort with a stranger touching him is much less important than not locking Fawley and himself—and, more importantly, Fawley’s family and Grandfather—into a decades-long feud.

Shafiq regains her composure quick as you can please, although her smile is brittle around the edges. “Let’s. Unless there are some further interruptions.”

“Now hold on—”

He cuts his eyes to Fawley and lets the seriousness of the situation seep through. “Be. Quiet.”

It does the job. Fear skitters over his cherubic face, before it settles into belligerent stubbornness. Doesn’t matter—the boy keeps his tongue behind his teeth, and that is a blessing. The Slytherins collectively flutter in their seats, like birds re-settling their feathers, but the sound of Itachi’s patience running dangerously close to the edge must mean more to them than to Hufflepuffs who for the most part twitter fondly. Some even roll their eyes at him—notably Clarke and Timothy.

All this and class doesn’t start for a good quarter-hour. Amaterasu give him strength.

“Tell me, Sirius,” says Shafiq after she claims their seats—second closest to the front, third row to the right. Good spot. It was probably left for her intentionally. “How do you feel about your sorting?”

He doesn’t shrug but implies he would do so if he were in less august company. “My Lord Grandfather assured me it was all but written in the stars. I was the only one who was surprised. The House of the Loyal suits me well, I have to say. Not that it matters much. As I have already said, I have a House. I am a Black before I am anything.”

There. That’s smooth enough—and covers enough points he wanted to cover. He reinforced his position in Grandfather’s good graces, and the second-handed power still afforded to him.

“I would have called your bluff if mother hadn’t already confirmed that Lord Black spoke to her about it, at the little—going away event you threw a few weeks back.”

“Well, if anyone would know, it’s Grandfather. He practically raised us.”

His eyes roam around the room until they fall onto the Snape boy, sitting alone, hunched into himself. It’s not completely obvious—it is a fair attempt at subterfuge, considering the boy’s age. The Hat is cruel to have placed him in the wealthiest house. Other than him, all the other children are wealthy, confident and cruel by nurture. Compared to them, Snape looks like a wild-child.

“You don’t happen to know the boy sitting in the front? With the second edition of Potions Through the Ages that it took me months to find?” He says, faux-casual. It’s even true—Kreacher couldn’t find it anywhere. However, Lady Longbottom has mentioned that exact text in one of her letters to Regulus, which meant Regulus had to have it come the End of Days. In the end, Grandfather had to step in and acquire the text before Itachi resorted to some light burglary.

“His name is Snape.” She says, eying the book with a twinge of idle curiosity. “It doesn’t surprise me he’s well-prepared for this class, considering his lineage.”

His lineage? The boy looks painfully muggle. “Oh?”

“His mother was Heiress Prince, once.” She says under her breath. “Ran away straight after Hogwarts.” She pauses for a second, an honest grimace flashing over her face. “I can’t blame her, either. With a betrothal like that—well.”

Hmmm. That’s an opportunity, right there.

“I will introduce myself after class, then. With Lord and Lady Prince being—as they are, he is Heir Prince in all but name. Family magic will snap him up unless something truly unexpected happens.”

She eyes him with an arched brow but doesn’t press. Indeed, she sneaks a considering look at the hunched-over boy when she thinks Itachi is not looking. Mission accomplished. The boy is not likely to remain a pariah with the attention of both Heir Black and Heiress Shafiq on him. When he adds Frank to the list, that will be three Sacred Twenty-Eight Heirs on his side.

Slughorn waddles inside, finally, all but dripping amiable stupidity. He’s overdoing it a bit, he thinks critically. Not that it matters—it’s good enough for the children, and Itachi is not his target audience at all.

* * *

Potions are every bit as interesting as he expected them to be. The lesson is much less painful than Transfiguration is. The discipline is structured in a way that makes sense—h sees that much shining through even in this watered-down version for itty-bitty children.

Shafiq lets him go at the end of the lesson but hangs close, curious how this will play out. He stands from his seat—the two of them have finished with their potions comfortably, and have cleaned up the station already.

Snape has two choices if his standing in Slytherin is what Itachi suspects. Either he will try to leave ahead of his classmates, or hang back until they’re gone. He chooses the latter option and is slowly packing up his supplies, trying to appear as casual as possible.

Itachi’s movement through the classroom doesn’t go unnoticed. A hush falls which is every bit as annoying as it ever was. Slughorn pales, doubtlessly thinking Itachi is moving in his direction, and all but dives into the storage room to escape. Coward.

Snape is not an idiot. He senses the tension as much as anyone, and his shoulders curl inwards more and more, head bent so his face is obscured by the heavy curtain of hair.

“Merry meet, Master Snape.” He says when he’s within polite distance, but not so close to crowd the boy.

“Merry meet, Heir Black.” Says Snape through clenched teeth, but straightens with desperate, childish bravado. Brave, thinks Itachi. Unlike their Professor, this one has a spine, and a fire that will keep him going far after others would have given up.

“Please, call me Sirius.” He says, pitching his voice into a carefully non-threatening tone. Which for him means emotionless, but it’s a work in progress. He’s not a non-threatening type of person. “I wanted to compliment you on your choice of reading. It took us months of ineffectual searching, and even then we had to fall back to our Lord to source it.”

Snape looks at him with well-worn suspicion, like he’s waiting for a punchline. He’s smart enough not to attack first, but he’s certainly willing to throw down if challenged.

“Sirius, then,” he allows, grudgingly. “My mother—” he changes track, semi-smoothly. “This edition is the only one worth reading.”

“I bow to your superior knowledge. The parts of it that I read were enjoyable—but I cannot say I would be able to judge its quality just yet.”

“You’ve read it?” He says raising one impressive brow.

“Parts of it. I appreciate Potions. They make sense.”

For a moment, a ray of happiness shines through, and he looks like a child for once. “They do, I think so too—” Snape cuts off whatever he was saying, having realized their conversation is the centre of attention of every child in the room. Or at least, every Slytherin. 

Irritation flashes through Itachi, and he sends a dismissive look at the on-lookers. Children.

Alright so maybe his lips curl a bit into a sneer, but that’s neither here nor there.

He wipes the expression from his face, before addressing the boy—the last thing he needs is for the boy to think Itachi is mocking him. “You were saying,” he prompts, keeping his voice calm.

“I—Potions.” Says Snape, nerves making his words stumble. “I will be a Potions Master one day.”

Not surprising, considering his ancestry. Princes have been portioners as long as there were Princes.

He nods, seriously, acknowledging the word. It’s important to encourage children, he’s pretty sure. “I don’t doubt it. I plan on a Mastery in Rune-work.”

“That’s—specific?” 

He shrugs. “Blacks don’t have a fixed talent as some do.” Like Princes do, hangs in the air, perfectly visible, but not verbally acknowledged. “We dabble in most things. Wards suit me, I think.”

“Right.” Says Snape, finally standing up, moving towards the door. The Hufflepuffs have already cleared out, and Clarke and Timothy wait for him by the door. The Slytherins haven’t moved from their seats, although they are packed at least.

Shafiq stands a few meters away and sends him a significant look.

Right. Traditions.

“Master Snape,” he says, and the formality in his tone must tip the boy off that something is happening because he pauses. “May I introduce Heiress Shafiq.” He turns to her. “My lady, master Snape.”

“Merry meet,” says Shafiq, dipping into a barely-there curtsey. It can’t be helped—Snape’s claim on Nobility is strained at best. The fact she’s acknowledging him as a member of the upper class is plenty.

“Merry meet,” says Snape warily, but bows. It’s rusty and unpracticed, but ultimately correct.

An awkward pause falls, where the two eye each other with a sort of baffled surprise.

“If you would, Master Snape,” He says once it’s clear the two have no idea what to say to one another. “I would introduce you to some of my classmates. Merry part, Heiress.”

“Merry part.”

* * *


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank

  
“Soo—that happened?” Says Timothy when they reach their common room. Potions might be captivating, but they’re hell on robes. His fine silks and linens are soaking with disgusting materials. Lady help whoever is in charge of cleaning that. 

“Specify, if you would.” He says, rummaging through his still-unpacked trunk. 

“The girl—Shafiq—” he asks, not indelicately. “She’s—your sort, right? Noble?” 

He nods absently. Classes are over—he can get away with more personalized clothing. “She’s Ancient and Noble, yes. Very old family, very powerful.” He hesitates—there are things to add here, but voicing such thoughts— “Politics are, unfortunately, going to follow me through Hogwarts. I am not averse to explaining it, but you will find it boring.” 

“Yeah no, I get that. I would happily stew in ignorance, but, well. You snapped at Fawley.” Says Timothy with a deliberately light tone. “Why? He was pretty tame, in comparison.” 

Lady, it’s going to be one of those conversations. 

“I will answer your questions after a shower. Deal?” 

* * *

“Look at you, Mr Aristocrat,” whistles Timothy, once Itachi is dressed and ready. 

Itachi rolls his eyes a little but tugs his warm coat close to his body nonetheless. Warming charms are well and good, but furs are furs. “Thank you. Now. You had some questions about Heiress Shafiq?” 

“I don’t care about her. But something about that conversation made you snap at Preston—Fawley. That makes me, I don’t know. Nervous?” Timothy looks at him with wide, earnest eyes—a child looking for answers. Fucks’ sake, these children are not his. He shouldn’t feel so wretched about not having explained everything already. 

“You’re right to be,” he says. “Shafiq is—if Fawley is not careful, he could get himself into real trouble by insulting the wrong person. I am laid back, as these things go. If Fawley drags Shafiq into this, she will bring the might of her House down onto his head just to make a point. That will, in turn, force my House to join in. The boy has been insulting me left and right.” 

Timothy blinks at him, in baffled confusion. “Is everything politics to you people? Can’t kids have a schoolyard fight without it becoming an international scandal?” 

Is this a conversation he needs to have right now? Really?

“There are rules about these things. If Fawley was just insulting me, we’d be in the clear. But he keeps making these sweeping accusations that my family will, at some point, be bound to respond to. Calling me a filthy snake is perfectly fine. Calling me a traitor is not. If he did that within earshot of, say, Morgan, or Shafiq, my hands would be bound. I would have to inform my Lord Grandfather. And that’s where things get messy.” 

Timothy tilts his head and chews on this for a little while. “Really?” He says. “Your families would get involved? We’re all kids, we’re not even of age. Isn’t that a bit—petty?” 

Isn’t it just? 

“Wizarding politics are brutal. Tensions have been rising for decades, the rate of inequality has never been higher. My House has recently come under fire, as you may have been informed, and my Lord Grandfather will do a lot to not show weakness. If that means crushing an innocent family for a few remarks made in bad taste, well.” 

“That’s—” Timothy pauses again, taken aback. “Messed up.” 

“I’m not the perfect person to talk to about this. You should talk to your mother about this.” 

“Oh, I will. It’s why I’m talking to you about it now. I need information.” 

He smiles a little at the absolute lack of manipulation of any kind. “Excellent. In the meantime, someone should talk to Fawley and explain why he should only bring up this stuff in private. I don’t mind him—I quite like his courage and stalwart nature. But things are very rarely as simple as that.” 

* * *

He’s amassing quite a diverse circle of acquaintances, it seems. He’s got one from every house, even. There’s Frank and James in Gryffindor, Clarke and Timothy in Hufflepuff, Morgan in Ravenclaw and Snape and Shafiq in Slytherin. Cousin Narcissa, too, but he feels no need to bother with her for now. 

On his way to dinner, he makes sure to nod to Snape in passing. The boy nods back, just as prickly as before, but that’s alright. The boy doesn’t need to like him or trust him. He just needs to be passively included in the ‘House Black’ umbrella. 

The meal itself is predictably uneventful—his classmates are used to him clamming up in public, so they don’t pester him. He speeds through his bland food and heads straight to the Gryffindor table. He needs to talk to Frank about Fawley. Frank is the perfect person to intervene. 

“Merry meet, James” he greets his pseudo-cousin. 

James twists in his seat like an eel, and beams at him, wide and mischievous. “Well, if it isn’t the Black Sheep of Hufflepuff! What brings you to our den?” 

“Yes, very droll. I’m here to pick up Frank, as it happens.” 

“Be still my heart,” comes from a few seats away, as the Longbottom heir swoons in his seat. 

He sighs. “Lady give me strength. I should get going, James, but I’d like to talk to you one of these days.” Snape is handled, more or less, but the Lupin child is still in the wind. James is the Gryffindor equivalent of Shafiq, at least int their year. Shafiq for Snape, James for Lupin, Frank for Fawley, and all his problem kids are solved. 

“Sirius,” James says, batting his eyelashes. “You can’t invite multiple boys on dates in plain view of each other. At least have the decency to do it in secret.” 

Itachi’s lips twitch—it’s impossible to summon even a twinge of annoyance. “Alas, Aunt Dorea still hasn’t given me her blessings. You are a prize without compare, to be certain, but the dragon guarding you is fiercer than this humble soul.” 

James’ laugh is as lovely as he is—unrestrained and ringing so brightly it leaves a tangible impression long after it’s gone. “I stand by my words. You are, by far, the most dramatic person I’ve ever met.” 

“That may well be true. Now, if you would excuse me—I have a Longbottom to talk to. Let me know when you have time for me. Merry part.” 

* * *

Thankfully, Frank is kind enough to not tarry. He finishes with his dinner, waves off the horde of friends and admirers who eye Itachi with a decent mix of suspicion and confusion. On one hand—infamous Black child. On the other hand—a shrimpy little Hufflepuff, half a head shorter than his peers with bird-bones and a thousand-yard stare. It’s hard to reconcile the two. 

Frank ushers them out of the Great Hall and through endless staircases—so much so that Itachi has to stop and rest several times. Every time it happens, Frank grows more and more flustered, to the point that the affable idiot mask truly starts slipping. 

Finally, he stops at a random section of a blank wall. “Wait here, for just a mo’” He walks in front of the door three times and a door appears. For a long moment, Itachi lives in the in-between state of helpless approval and baffled rage. Sure—why not that? 

The room is large and cosy, in shades of browns and golds. There is a fire-place, and large leather sofas, blankets and cushions strewn about, and a huge oak desk in one corner. 

“Come, come,” he says, moving towards the arm-chair. “Welcome to the Come-and-go Room. It transforms into what you want it to be.” Itachi feels a large, important part of his sanity die a fiery death. Some of it must play out on his face because he chuffs a little. “I know. Don’t ask me how it works.”

Mind still chasing itself, he consents to be herded into the prime spot on the sofa, right next to the fire-place. A transforming room—what does that even mean? 

“Now—what in Merlin’s name happened? Is the Prophet—” He breaks off, probably uncertain how to bring up the sensitive matter of near-death-by-parent. “Are you—” 

Has it been less than ten days since the whole mess went down? Circe, but it feels longer than that. 

“It’s a predictably miserable affair all around, I’m afraid.” He says, letting some of the weariness wrap around his words. “I wanted to be Heir, so I cornered Lord Black into supplanting Orion Black. He took exception. Kreacher brought Grandfather quickly enough to save both our lives.” 

Frank tucks his legs further into his armchair and watches him with a very lost expression for a long moment. He looks young like this, Itachi thinks. It’s sometimes hard to remember that this world is still much more innocent than his previous one. In Konoha, it would have been scandalous because of the dishonour of it, but the violence wouldn’t be out of place. “So it’s true? What they’re saying in the Prophet?” 

“Probably. It was pretty bad. I don’t read the Prophet. But Orion and Walburga are in prison, and the trial is set for October.” 

“Are you—you’re not okay, of course, but—he didn’t—” 

Itachi cocks his head a little. What is Frank’s goal here? They’re not friends. At best they’re possible future allies. 

“You have to be more precise, I’m afraid. I can’t imagine you want the details of the—incident.” 

Frank blanches, and wraps his arms around his knees. “Merlin, no.” 

“You never know what people will do,” Itachi says, still curious as to where this is going. “I’m fine. Most of the damage was healed, and the rest will fix itself in time. Now, onto more important things. I need your assistance, I’m afraid.” 

Frank blinks at him, caught in some internal struggle, but what exactly it is, is beyond him. “Oh?” 

Itachi nods. “There are three problem children in my year, and I am the last person to help them.” 

The corner of Frank’s lips tilts into a small, humourless smile. “I don’t suppose you count yourself in that number?” 

“My problems are above your pay grade, I’m afraid,” he says with a touch of humour. “Grandfather has hired us a Mind Healer. No, I’m talking about Lupin, Snape and Fawley.” 

Frank stiffens slightly, and an unreadable expression falls over his face. “Lupin?” He says, voice mild. “That would be Remus Lupin, one of my firsties?” 

Itachi stops his eyes from narrowing. Again with the defensive reaction. Frank knows what’s going on with the boy, and is touchy about it. Whatever the situation is, it must be connected to prejudice they all think he shares. 

“Yes,” he says, keeping emotion from his voice. “I already spoke to Lady McGonagall about it, and she assures me the boy’s parents aren’t abusing him. I have some doubts about it, still, but I am not the right person to keep an eye out for him. The child is underfed, skittish, friendless and kept at a distance by his peers. You are perfectly placed to help him.” 

The guarded expression cracks and peels off Frank’s face, and a crooked little smile creeps in its place. “I can confirm Lupin isn’t abused. I’ve met his parents, as it happens. They’re fine people.”

Itachi raises an eyebrow. “I’m sure. Moving on, there is Severus Snape, who also comes from a troubled home. There is only so much anyone can do to shield him from his classmates’—attention, but I have done what I can to help as Heir of House Black. Shafiq Heiress is somewhat amenable to helping there, too, but you would be a decent addition. Three Ancient and Noble Heirs would go a long way at levelling things somewhat.” 

“Right,” says Frank, smile spreading into a wide grin. “Sure, I will do what I can. I have a few connections in Slytherin.” 

Itachi takes in a deep breath. Now comes the important part. 

“But, really,” he says, meeting Frank’s eye, imparting every bit of pathetic pleading he can. “It’s Fawley that is the biggest problem child. The boy is—impossibly foolish.” 

Frank looks like he is holding in his laugh by herculean efforts. “That would be the boy who got himself a detention on the first night?” He says with a strangled tone. “Who keeps calling you out.”

Itachi narrows his eyes. “He is suicidally reckless,” he says, maybe a touch petulantly. “I can ignore him most of the time, but he called the Shafiq Heiress a slimy traitor in class! The Shafiq heiress, Frank!” 

Frank hiccups, getting a bit red around the ears. 

“It’s not funny! I barely managed to appease her—and only because she was more interested in grilling me for information. The boy is a half-blood, Frank, there is only so many times he can sneer at a wrong person before word gets out and Aunt Cassie does something we all regret.” 

“It’s a little funny,” squeaks Frank. “He is just so cute—like a little prickly bunny—” 

“Look—just talk to him, would you? I would if I could, but the child follows me around sneering and jeering at all times. I get that nobody expected me to be a Hufflepuff, but it is a bad time to be calling out a Black about anything. My family is gearing for a fight, and they won’t be reasonable.” 

Frank sobers a little, but his eyes are still dancing with humour. “I don’t know what you expect me to do, honestly? The boy has a vendetta. I am also a Pureblood Heir, you know. Anything I say would just make him cry favouritism the more.” 

“Someone has to do it.” He tries again. 

“Alright, how about this. I don’t particularly care.” He says, with a complicated glint in his eyes. “I will do my duty to the school, but I have faster nifflers to catch than one silly child with a chip on their shoulder. Lupin and Snape are in dire situations through no fault of their own—I am with you there. Fawley is not.” 

Itachi pauses and takes in for perhaps the first time, the figure of the man-boy talking to him. Sweet or not, Frank is a Pureblood heir, born and raised aristocrat. 

“Alright,” he says, and is slightly resigned to the cool notes his voice drops to. “A trade, then. What can this Heir offer to the House Longbottom?” 

Frank blinks once, twice, before the tension is broken. “I swear, you bring out the worst in me. I can’t believe you’d offer a serious trade for that brat. But fine, no trades. A favour, in good faith, me to you. I will speak to your problem child once. After he spits in my face I will wash my hands of the whole sorry affair and feed him to Lady Potter myself.” 

Nice try. Itachi’s back is up now, and while Frank is good, he’s nowhere near as good as Riddle. Itachi might have been caught up in the relative harmlessness of the children, of the whimsical nature of the school, but he certainly knows better. Baby crocodiles are still predators, no matter how cute they might appear.

He smiles, wide and insincere. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate Frank—he does, very much. His mask is excellent, and the game he plays with the world is fascinating in its unpredictability. He is even confident in his good nature. But he is dangerous, and it’s time to acknowledge that. 

“I do apologize—I’ve been taking up time with my requests. But there is a conversation to be had, isn’t there? You’re not here out of the goodness of your heart. So—what is it you need House of Black for?” 

Frank blinks at him, mimicking confusion fairly well, but it’s a bit late for that, now. 

“I want a third option.” He says when he concludes Itachi is not buying it. “You are something new, and I am sick of the status quo. I don’t appreciate the fact I can predict the next hundred years of my House.” 

Fair enough. 

He inclines his head. “We are Neutral. Grey, if we must fall back to banal metaphors. I will not tie my House to either one of the sinking ships, you understand.” He leans forward, letting some of his own cruelty shine. “And I know this because, on the off chance they manage to avoid imploding through sheer foolishness, I will sink them myself.” 

Frank blinks, not having expected Itachi to show his teeth, probably. Well, now, what did you expect? You can’t shrug off throwing a misguided child to the wolves, and expect the playing field to remain all daisies and roses. 

“Noted.” He says. “Longbottoms are Light, but the current us versus them mentality is only harming us, as far as I can see. I want to keep my House relevant, and that, currently, means you.” 

“House Black would welcome you as a friend, I’m sure.” He pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts. Hmm. He will need some new terminology. “That’s how we are going to operate, I think. Friends instead of allies. In the interest of, ah, transparency,” he says the last word with a heavy dose of irony, “I am working on making one Lord Riddle a friend of my House.” 

“Riddle?” He asks, and as far as Itachi can tell, honestly confused. “I can’t say I know the name.” 

Oh, you sweet summer child. 

“He’s one of ours.” He says, taking pity on him. “Dark Purebloods, I mean.” 

“Right.” He says, a bit doubtfully. “Blacks are a Dark House. The Dark House. I would not expect you to change your alliances.” 

Itachi’s lips twitch at that. Riddle is many things, but he’s not one for the status quo, as far as he could tell. He was a politician, in that he had a following. Other than that, what Itachi could read from his magic indicated the man would be more comfortable with a still-beating heart in his teeth than in a meeting. 

“Just a heads up, between friends. Naturally, I can’t commit anything, until the business with the trial is finished, you understand.” 

Frank looks at him with an unreadable expression, long moments trickling by. “It is entirely possible,” he says slowly, “that you know a lot more than I do about our current political situation. I did not expect my House will need serious alliances for a good few years yet.” 

The unexpected rejoinder shocks him from the more—professional bent his mind fell into. It’s entirely possible Itachi’s more—wary—instincts were triggered without real cause. This boy isn’t looking for an out in the upcoming war. He is looking for someone to go to Wizengamot with, bless his little heart. 

“It’s best to start these things early,” he says but lets himself relax. “For example, I would like to throw you a Coming-of-Age event at Castle Black in May.” 

“Pardon?” Frank’s alarmed expression melts into a confused one, which is absolutely a win. “You can’t just—that’s not up to you—” 

Itachi waves his hand airily. “I already spoke to Grandfather about it, no need to worry. I leave it up to you to convince your Lady Mother, of course.” 

“Right, right, Mother…” he trails off, visibly gathering his thoughts. “Wait, no, what? How did we even—what are you talking about?” 

Itachi’s lips twitch at the outraged expression on Frank’s face. “You want at least the implication of an alliance, yes? What better way than to let us throw you an elaborate party?” 

Frank looks at him for a long moment. “This is revenge, isn’t it?” He says. “This is because I didn’t want to help the blonde pulling your pigtails? You are going to be a whirlwind of chaos at me until I regret everything, I can already tell.” 

“I do not know what you’re talking about, dear.” 

* * *

“Dear, before I forget,” he says, as he starts recognizing the area as being near Hufflepuff dorms. “I came across a term I am unfamiliar with in my reading. You don’t happen to be familiar with the Path of Yelena?” 

Frank sends him a deeply surprised look, both eyebrows raised. “Of course I am.” He says. “Yelena Agapova was the most famous champion for Witches’ wellbeing, in, well, the world. Famous healer. Practically single-handedly saved most of the Eastern European population of witches during the Trials—and wizards to a lesser extent.” 

Oh wow, okay. “And the Path is—” 

“She famously travelled from her birth-place in Belovodye, through Eastern Europe, via the Balkans, through Austria, visiting the Isles as well. Healers—real, dedicated Healers—walk the same path she walked to honour her and continue her work. Why do you ask?” 

“Professor Woodward. She walked the Path.” 

Frank gapes. “No.” He says, voice full of wonder. “Really? Our Herbology Professor?” 

“Oh yes. Twice, even.”

“Wow.” He shakes his head as if to clear it. “That’s a big deal. That’s—I don’t think more than perhaps one person every year starts on the path. It’s long, lonely work with very strict rules. You have to help and heal all magic-folk you come across, never demanding payment. You have to teach and offer what wisdom you have to any who would wish to learn. It’s—almost holy. Sacred. To have walked it twice—” 

The more he listens, the more impressed he is with his Head of House. It does sound sacred, in fact. In the Elemental Nations, monks quite often underwent similar pilgrimages, but very rarely did those trips focus on healing others rather than themselves. 

“That is impressive,” he admits freely. “She looks frightfully competent. Hogwarts does have impressive staff. “

“Merlin—there can’t be more than a hundred healers alive who walked the Path once, never mind twice. It’s—I best start paying more attention to her lectures. In my seventh year—how do you even know about this?” 

He smiles a little, letting some of the self-deprecating chagrin show. “Paranoia, I’m afraid. I asked my Lord Grandfather to look into my Head of House. She is—a formidable witch. I was terrified.” 

Frank looks at him like he lost every single ounce of sense. “Professor Woodward. The quiet, unassuming, entirely apolitical Professor Woodward?” 

“Professor Woodward who fought in the Grindelwald Wards as a frontline medic,” he says sweetly. “Professor Woodward, who would have gone against Lord Black if she thought I wasn’t ready to start Hogwarts this year? That Professor Woodward? I’m still terrified, Frank, and so should you be.” 

“I’m starting to get that impression, yes.” He says, with no little wonder. “Alright, then. I leave you to your badgers, and I’m off to revise my Herbology essay, Merlin save me. Merry part.” 

“Merry part.” 

* * *

Dear Sirius, 

Healer Rosier has started daily seasons with Regulus and has agreed to meet with you on Saturdays and Sundays at 18.00. Lady McGonagall has agreed, pending the approval of the Headmaster. Expect a not-too-subtle interrogation. 

Life continues to be busy. Dorea and Cassie send their regards. I would watch for their retaliation. Lady Potter especially does not appreciate being yanked out of her cosy manor to deal with the admin work. Cassie, on the other hand, is both thrilled and furious. I had to bribe her with very important secrets to convince her it would not be appropriate to have scantily dressed young things carry her to and from the Wizengamot. 

Don’t read the press unless you have to. Remember to stay above reproach. I am told your Professors, barring Slughorn, are very impressed by your performance and comportment. Keep it up and I am buying you and Regulus a surprise present for Yule. 

Keep safe, keep vigilant, 

Arcturus 

He reads the letter once, twice, three times. 

“Is Grandfather—alright?” He says, beyond confused. 

“He is healthy.” Says Kreacher, and Itachi absolutely knows his cagey tone when he hears it. 

“Yeah, okay. Good to know. What is going on?” 

“He is worried, little star.” Says Kreacher slowly. “The news-wizards write disgusting articles about you, on the hour. The demand is such they print several editions of the paper. All about the scandal. Our Regulus is hit hard, not just by what happened, but by reading the paper. It is expected that Lord Black is under stress.” 

“Ah. Yes, well. Fair enough.” 

* * *

Dear Grandfather, 

I gather by the tone of your letter you are operating with too little sleep and too much worry. Please, try and rest a bit more. I assure you, I am the most comfortable Black in all the lands. The children are welcoming, the staff are beyond reproach, Kreacher brings me news promptly. 

Thank you for organizing my mind-healing sessions. I look forward to them. My physical condition is improving by the day. 

The newspaper doesn’t interest me so I don’t read it. So far none of the children have confronted me about it, so I see no reason to change that. I wonder at the state of the land when this is the most important thing there is to talk about, but it is, in the end, none of my concern. 

Give my well wishes to Aunt Cassie. Frank is going to start attending the Wizengamot meetings next year, and I look forward to introducing him to her. That will be an explosive meeting, that I will take great pleasure in. Please inform Aunt Dorea I have made contact with Heir Potter, and that he is everything I could have expected. 

All my love, as always, goes to Regulus. Please, inform me when you think my letters would be appreciated. I have much to tell him. He will rule this school in a few short years. 

Your grandson, 

Sirius Black 

* * *


	8. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lily

“You stop right there.”

Itachi and the gaggle of badgers that have somehow become his—Timothy, Young and Clarke—stop in their tracks.

_What on earth_ —

The children are exasperating, but so far he has managed to keep himself from any real anger. No longer. First trickles of irritation swirl low in his belly. Whoever this unfortunate soul is, they barely escaped with their lives. Itachi’s hand is already wrapped around the hilt of a knife. With the unexpected adrenaline coursing through his veins, and the tell-tale itch in his teeth, he truly does not appreciate whatever nonsense the child thinks to embroil them in.

He gathers his composure as best he can and turns around to deal with the blight on an otherwise pleasant Thursday.

The redheaded pseudo-Uzumaki girl is storming their way, so reminiscent of Sasuke’s little boyfriend that it almost takes his breath away. She is a sight. Waist-length hair that looks to have a somewhat coarse, indomitable texture flows around her as she moves. Her features are too wide to be considered classically beautiful in Pureblood circles but the vibrancy is enough to take one's breath away.

Now, what has enraged this little dragon to this point?

“You—Black.” Of course it’s him.

Timothy audibly swallows down his laughter, and so does Young. Clarke, however, looks almost as displeased as Itachi feels. More, even. The golden-eyed fawn is usually sweet-tempered, always with a kind word on his lips. Even Fawley doesn’t nudge him from deliberate serenity.

Not anymore. Clarke—Andrew, he really should call him Andrew by now—steps into the path of the furious eleven-year-old girl without a moment’s hesitation, and Young—Noah—wheezes out another laugh. “Oh, no,” Young says under his breath. “Oh, this will be bad. ‘Drew can be catty as anything when he’s riled.”

“Excuse you,” says Clarke, voice laced with enough frost to halt a grown man in his tracks. “That is no way to speak to a classmate.”

“Budge over, pretty boy.” Says the girl, dismissing him very, very thoroughly. “I have a snob to put in place.”

“And you think I will—what? Let you? Let you harass my friend like the wildling you are? Please.” He adds a derisive sneer for effect. Honestly, if Itachi didn’t know any better, he’d think the boy was a Pureblood-brat. Since this entire showdown is happening in front of the entrance to the Great Hall, they’re getting quite an audience. He can see the approving looks coming Clarke’s way by Purebloods and Halfbloods alike.

“Listen, I don’t know who you are, and I don’t particularly care about whatever crush you’re nursing. Black has been harassing my friend and that stops now. So move away.”

_One day_. Just—one day of peace? Is that too much to ask?

Apparently so. The drama is not only out of the blue, it’s rapidly escalating. The implication wasn’t subtle—and Clarke is a Halfblood. He doesn’t need—can’t afford—even an implication of improper behaviour. The girl—a proudly working-class Muggleborn—probably doesn’t know it. But that, as is so often the case, helps nobody.

He needs to de-escalate this and quick. Not him personally—he is still a bit too keyed in from the unexpected shot of adrenaline, and he might be a bit too protective of his three badgers. The fact of the matter is: Clarke will have to do some proper PR, now, because of one misguided child with more courage than sense. That’s not easy to let go.

“Quiet.” He says, pitching his voice to carry, letting some of his irritation whip through. “It is obvious the Lady is not willing to have a civil discussion. Therefore, we need a mediator. Young, if you would be so kind to fetch Heir Longbottom? He is sitting at the Gryffindor table. Since the Lady is a lion, it is appropriate.”

“Now wait just one moment, you arrogant little snot—”

“Clarke—Andrew,” he says, ignoring the redhead as best he can. “Thank you for your help. You are a better friend than I deserve. Nevertheless, you need not bother yourself with this.”

The fawn blinks his enormous golden eyes at him once, twice, three times, before a tense little smile quirks his lips. “Of course I’m not leaving you here with that girl.” The last word is said with a dainty little sniff, causing a little ripple of—rather mean-spirited, it has to be said—laughter from the Pureblood parts of the crowd. Lady help them, they have a crowd. It’s not even a question of how—why is this his life?

Indeed the girl flushes then pales then flushes again. Her—rather impressive—courage helps her to power through the embarrassment, but it is no little thing, to be in the spotlight so young without many allies at all.

“I’m sure the Lady and myself will have a perfectly civil conversation with Heir Longbottom as the mediator. You are, as always, welcome to stay if you prefer.”

“So smooth.” Says Timothy from his spot behind his right shoulder. “I swear to God, Sirius, it will never not be funny, how you keep stumbling into most ridiculously dramatic situations without even doing anything.”

He suppresses a sigh and sends a tight smile the girl’s way. “Miss Evans, was it?” He says. “Merry meet. I am Sirius Black.”

“I know who you are.” She says sharply. “If you expect me to be scared by your titles and your money, you have another thing coming.”

“Right.” He says, trying to figure out—It has to be about Snape somehow. But honestly, Itachi has been a fucking kitten to Snape. He’s been gentler with Snape than he has been with anyone not sharing half of his DNA.

“Chin up.” Whispers Timothy, all sorts of amused. “Your big, burly knight is coming to rescue from the big bad.”

“Oh thank Merlin,” he whispers back. “I can’t handle this. I just wanted some dinner.”

“You can handle this just fine. Especially since ‘Drew is halfway to scratching her eyes out.”

“Lady wept.”

“Merry meet,” says Frank, swallowing the distance between them with large, only subtly hurried steps. Young half-walks-half-runs behind him, deep-burgundy hair flashing gold in the candlelight. “What’s all this, then? Young master Young informed me I am needed as a mediator?”

Oh, Merlin—that was a joke. He thinks that’s funny.

Ignoring the horrible thing pretending to be a joke, he inclines his head politely. “Merry meet, Frank. Noah has indeed called you at my urging. Thank you, Noah. To answer your question, Miss Evans has decided to, ah, start a somewhat charged conversation with me and my companions, and I thought I best secure an impartial overseer.”

“The girl called us over like we were dogs.” Seethes Andrew. “Like she was calling us to heel. I will not stand for it, Headboy. Whatever delusions she lives in are not my concern.”

_Oh, dear_.

Frank seems to share his concern because after exchanging a long look with Itachi, he claps his hands twice. “Alright, firsties. Here’s what we’re going to do. Evans, Clarke, Black and—pardon me, what is your name, badger three?”

“Timothy,” he says pleasantly. “Timothy Warnock. Umm. Merry meet?”

“Merry meet, Master Warnock,” says Frank with a hidden smile, even adding a gloriously inappropriate half-bow to the Muggleborn. “You look like you have a good head on your shoulders. You join too. We’re going to go sit inside an empty classroom and talk this out. Evans, do you want anyone to come with you?”

“I don’t need anyone to hold my hand,” she says, with a decent attempt at a sneer. Itachi can see how much she’d like to call on one or two of the Gryffindor girls standing around.

“Of course you don’t,” says Frank with a little exhaustion poking through. “Still. Fortescue—you were here, yes? Saw the whole thing?” He waits for the girl-child to nod her head before scanning the crowd some more. “Gill—how about yourself? Alright, perfect. Three Gryffindors and three Hufflepuffs, it’s all nice and fair. Alright. Off we go, kiddies.”

* * *

Somewhat dazed by the sheer randomness of everything that happened, he lets himself be led by Timothy blindly. The Gryffindors follow Frank like ducklings, lead by a very angry, very self-assured murder-duckling.

He sits them down in a classroom on the smaller side, with one large square table that can sit twenty easily.

“Alright. I understand this—whatever this is, is little more than a misunderstanding. I am here not to hand out punishments but to make sure the tone of the conversation remains civil throughout. Is that correct?”

Clarke scoffs but doesn’t insist, which Itachi is damn grateful for. He doesn’t need to stir up his more unhinged impulses, and he’s never at his best when he feels one of his own is slighted.

“That’s right.” Says Timothy, voice as cheerful as ever. “It’s all a giant misunderstanding, I’m sure. Still—our Siri is a very by the books type of boy. He takes these things seriously.”

Amaterasu, but this is weird. “Before we continue, if I may, perhaps introductions are in order?” He says, keeping himself as even as possible.

The girlchildren introduce themselves—Alice Fortescue and Julie Gill are, well, eleven-year-old children, Half-bloods he’d assume. Fortescue looks to be a Wizarding name though so—who knows. It’s very like Frank to deliberately make sure there is no suspicion of Pureblood privilege. Especially when the conflict is between a very, very blatant Muggleborn and a very, very blatant Pureblood.

“Merry meet, Miss Gill, Miss Fortescue, Miss Evans.”

“Alright, if that’s done,” explodes Evans. “If we can stop kissing up to the snob, please, that would be swell.”

Andrew sneers and puffs up, very much like a golden-eyed, dark-skinned owlet.

“Is that the tone you want to set, Evans?” Says Timothy, nothing but curiosity in his eyes. Itachi suspects, though, that he doesn’t handle any of this nearly as well as the serene appearance would suggest. “We’re all classmates here.”

“Excuse me if I have a problem with a jerk harassing my friend for days.” She snaps back, undaunted. “He keeps putting Severus on the spot, making him uncomfortable, just because he’s the son of someone rich and noble.”

Ouch. He raises an eyebrow, cooling a little. Her concern is admirable in theory?

“I have been nothing but cordial to Master Snape. I do not appreciate the insinuation, not of myself or him. Your intervention is neither warranted nor well-executed.”

She scoffs, tossing her hair to great effect. “He can’t say no, can he? He’s already having a hard time in Slytherin, and the last thing he needs is you mucking about, throwing your weight around with the rest of them.”

“First of all, how dare you—” says Andrew, before forcibly biting down on the continuation of that sentence.

Itachi sends a despairing look at Frank who observes the drama with a sort of baffled surprise like he can’t quite believe he is seeing this.

“Evans, look,” says Timothy. “You seem like a nice enough girl, and like you care for your friend a lot. Do you think this is helping him? Do you think he will thank you? That he should? I was there every time Siri spoke to your friend. He wasn’t rude, he wasn’t disrespectful. Sirius loves potions, and your friend is ace at potions. I don’t know what your plan was, but all you did was make a scene.”

She huffs at him, but maybe? There’s a hint of uncertainty there?

“Alright, I admit I didn’t have to shout.” She allows, grudging every inch of the way. “But it’s not okay. Sev is not—the Slytherins are awful to him, and every time Mr High and Mighty speaks to him, his housemates hound him. He can’t say anything first, because of whatever inter-House drama the snakes are playing, so he has to suffer in silence.”

“So your plan is—what? To get Siri to stay away?” Asks Timothy with a very appropriate level of incredulity in his tone.

“Yes.” She nods, determined and righteous.

Something snaps in Itachi. “Get over yourself,” he says, feeling like he’s having an out-of-body experience. “You know so very little about the world you and your friend live in. You don’t know the first thing about the problems Severus Snape is facing. More to the point, perhaps: you, little girl, cannot make me do a single damn thing. Not a one.”

His voice has grown low, almost cruel. He doesn’t like hearing it. He can’t stop himself, it seems. “I suggest in the future, you try asking, first. Read something. Educate yourself. Then decide on a course of action.” He clasps his hands together, to stop them from shaking. “Most importantly, if you have a problem with me, try to express that without insulting my badgers.”

He finishes talking and floats back into awareness. Damn. That was. Not entirely warranted. The girl-child is pale and leaning back into her chair as far as it would go. Timothy’s hand is on his shoulder, patting it soothingly, and Clarke looks at him like he’s never seen him before. His saving grace is that neither of his friends looks in any way afraid.

“Well, okay then,” says Frank, loud in the silence. “That was exciting. And weird. You’re a strange batch of first-years. So. Since I was here to make sure everything was above-board, I’m going to go ahead and call it a night. Black—you need to eat. Evans—you’re off the hook this time. Next time multiple people tell me you’ve been demeaning a single student because of the circumstances of their birth, I will talk with Professor McGonagall. Chop-chop.”

“Kitchens?” He says to Timothy, all sorts of tired.

“Umm. Yeah. Sure. Kitchens.”

* * *

“Soo—”

Merlin, it’s becoming almost a tradition. Every day, Itachi does something stupid, and every day Timothy waits until they’re somewhere private to make sense of it. On one level, Itachi is learning a lot about healthy communication methods. On another, it’s incredibly stressful, what with Itachi’s hoarding tendencies. All three of his badgers are adorable, but when they’re earnest, they’re devastating.

“I know. I apologize.” He grimaces, a bit uncertain as to what, exactly, he is apologizing for. “I was out of line.”

“I mean. Not really?” Timothy says. “It was—a lot, but I am not surprised.”

“Really?” Itachi blinks at the two boys sitting across from the little table the elves set up for them. “You’re sure. I was—ah. Not entirely diplomatic with the girl-child.”

“She was out of line first,” says Andrew. The boy is tense, still angry but all sorts of vindicated too. Strange that Andrew seems to be the most vindictive of his children. “And no, I’m not surprised you got offended after she dragged us into it. Nobody who spent more than a day with you would be.”

Well. That’s adorable.

“You good, ‘Drew?” Says Timothy carefully. “I feel like I should focus on Siri’s Lord Of Darkness moment, but you got real angry real quick there. It’s—yeah. You know she didn’t mean to insult you?”

Andrew clenches his teeth so hard, Itachi spends a long moment being grateful skele-gro is a thing here. “Nobody gets to speak to me like that.” He says after a long, tense moment. “I don’t care what she intended. Preston is one thing, and even he never brought the rest of us into his nonsense.”

“To be fair, he did go after that girl—Esfir,” says Timothy, edging a bit closer, close enough to place a soothing hand on his shoulder.

“Shafiq can damn well take care of herself.” He bites out, echoing Itachi’s thoughts perfectly. “My family can’t. My sister works in the Ministry.”

Well, shit.

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Itachi says, meeting Andrew’s eyes seriously. “You won’t get any backlash from our side. Not any more than you would just for associating with me at all.”

“Right.” Andrew pastes a very tight smile on his face, that looks like it hurts. “I’m sure your Lord is perfectly happy to hear rumours of his heir dallying with a muggle-raised Halfblood.”

“Alright,” says Timothy, a note of alarm twining through audibly. “First of all, the word dallying is gross and you should never use it. Second of all, I know you all take your, I don’t know, reputations and public personas seriously, but this is ridiculous. Siri would never let anything happen to you. You saw what happened when someone went after his friendship with the Snape boy, and he doesn’t even like him.”

Despite everything, Itachi feels himself relaxing into Timothy’s common sense. It’s so refreshing to be in the company of a healthy, well-adjusted child with a firm grip on reality.

“Timothy is not wrong,” he says. “My position in our House hierarchy is very firm. Grandfather would never go against me in this.”

“See—listen to the maniac. And, really, I feel like this is something we will simply have to get used to. A lot of people have a problem with our Siri, and a lot of them will take it out on us. You can’t let it get to you.”

Andrew exhales harshly and lets some of the tension bleed out of him. “It’s just so frustrating.” He says. “It’s like everyone forgot how ruthless the Purebloods get on a whim.”

“They didn’t forget, they just don’t know.” Says Timothy. “I don’t know if we’re honest. I can see that everyone steps lightly around Shafiq and Morgan and that Slytherin House has this whole thing about Siri where they hang on his every word and want to crawl inside his skin, but it’s, yeah. Abstract. We don’t have anything like that.”

“Imagine if—Prince Charles went to your school,” Andrew says, a little grim. “Only more ‘cause the Royals are less important in the Muggle world. That’s Sirius. Literal royalty. And since the laws here are different, once you’re the Heir, you have a lot of power. First-hand power. Age doesn’t come into it. Just because a lot of the kids don’t realize it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect them.”

“Woah.” Says Timothy, looking at Itachi like he can’t quite reconcile this with the image he had in his head.

“It’s complicated.” He says, keeping his posture loose by some miracle. “Andrew is right in a general sense. I could do a lot of damage if I wanted to. That would be very stupid of me, in the long run. I am here, in Hogwarts, to try and clean up our image. Evans, as silly as she was, could do a lot of damage to me.”

“Not as much as you could do to her,” says Andrew. “Which is kind of my point. I don’t think you would go there, I don’t. I like you—you’re my friend. But I’m not blind, I had years to learn the rules, and it’s just—difficult to see kids breaking them left and right.”

“Jesus Christ,” says Timothy, softly, like it was punched out of me. “Sorry—that was insensitive of me. Sorry.”

“Pardon?” Itachi says.

“Umm. I read that magicals don’t appreciate Christianity. Which, yeah, totally understandable—”

Itachi blinks at the flustered boy, and a faint tingling of warmth spreads from his ribcage through his limbs, pooling in his fingers and toes. “Thank-you.” He smiles. “That is very considerate of you. I don’t mind, though. Please, when we’re in private, feel free to observe whatever rituals you find enlightening.”

Andrew huffs a small, strangled laugh. “It’s not—that wasn’t prayer, that was like, an expression. Like we would say ‘Merlin’.”

“Oh.” He sends another smile at Timothy who is steadily blushing more and more. “My point stands. I will help you find a place to work on your religious practices. We’re what you would call polytheists, but my family worships Lady Hectate.”

“Wait—you’re religious?” Says Timothy, shocked enough that Itachi raises an eyebrow. It’s a strange way of phrasing it. How could he not be—the hand of the supernatural is felt strongly in this world, even more so than in the Elemental Nations. Which says a lot.

“Never mind,” says Andrew. “Let’s leave that discussion for another day, shall we? It’s getting, late, I’m exhausted and Noah is probably tearing his hair out in worry.”

“Not his gorgeous hair,” wails Timothy. “Anything but the hair!”

Itachi nods solemnly and goes back to choking down the barely flavoured chicken. Young’s hair was truly marvellous.

* * *

“Before we leave.” Merlin, he doesn’t want to talk about, well, anything anymore. He’s so over these petty dramas and pointless circular arguments… “I need some—outside perspective. What she said, with Snape. You don’t think she’s right? That I’m causing problems for the boy?”

“Absolutely not.” Says Timothy immediately. It’s gratifying that Timothy—very much an outsider to all this petty posturing—is so very certain. “I don’t know why you chose Snape of all kids. He’s scary and rude and a bit wild. But it’s a good thing, for him. To have you lookin’ out for him. As I said, Slytherins have this eerie fascination with you. They treat him better now. And he looks better.”

“He’d not have had it easy. I think he’s the only muggle-raised Halfblood in Slytherin. Don’t listen to her. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” Says Andrew, golden eyes flashing.

He sighs a little, fond and exhausted. “Fine. Great. Super. Let’s go, then. I need to see a bed, and I need to see it soon.”

* * *

Thing is, Hogwarts is never peaceful. Itachi is—doing okay with everything, but day to day, a hundred things surprise him, raise his blood-pressure, a thousand little interactions happen where he’s beyond baffled at what on earth is happening.

By the time his vow-bound Mind-healer floos into Professor Woodward’s office, he’s wound up into a tizzy, desperately in need of an outlet. A nice, bloody spar would be ideal. (A nice, bloody battlefield would be ideal.) With how weak he is, mentally, physically and magically, that is ridiculously out of the question.

“Healer Rosier.” Greets Lady McGonagall, echoed by Professor Woodward. There is a touch of personality there, a spark of a connection. Not too strange—Healer Rosier is fairly young, and was likely taught by the Professors at some point.

“Merry meet, Professors.” Healer Rosier bows, fairly low, lower than he had to certainly. He’s a predictably handsome man, brown-haired, with hooded eyes set so deep he looked to be wearing cosmetics. “Merry meet, Heir Black.”

“Merry meet, Healer Rosier.” He says, tilting his lips in a painful, polite smile. “Please, call me Sirius.”

“My honour.” Nods the Healer. “Do you have a space for us, Lady McGonagall? Preferably one we can use for months to come?”

“Of course, right this way.”

* * *

The healer is merciless. Whatever he had expected, a gentle, careful exploration of his feelings, this wasn’t it. This was more in the lane of the Yamanaka, only without the constant threat of lobotomy. 

The healer repeated the vow of secrecy, swore on his magic he will not reveal or hint to anything he learns in these meetings. Then he proceeded to drag him in and out of topics Itachi doesn’t want to talk about. His father, his mother. His Grandfather. His position in life. His fears. The only thing he left alone—for now—is Regulus, but that would have earned him a knife to the throat so that’s really for the best.

The second hour is spent in meditating and working on something called Occlumency, which looks to be the most useful branch of magic he’s encountered yet. Not the most interesting—that’s wizard-space—or the most pleasant—that’s charms— but definitely most useful. He hadn’t thought there was a field of mind-magic, but now that he knows it to be a threat, he can barely think of anything else.

“How was it?” Asks Timothy, warm and bouncy as always. Itachi’s mind-healing sessions are something of an open secret in Hufflepuff House, and it’s been phenomenal PR frankly. Even Fawley didn’t do anything but nod grudgingly, as if he appreciated that if he has to have an evil maniac sharing his Dorm, he’s at least happy the maniac is working on being passingly sane.

Itachi grunts as he slides into the nearest soft surface, conveniently close to a heat source.

“That good, huh?”

Busy with wriggling his body as far into the cushions as it can go, he sends a speaking look at the grinning child. “Take one look at me,” he says, voice muffled by the pillow he is mushed into. “And guess how many mommy issues I have. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

Timothy wheezes, a short, startled burst of sound. “That’s, ah, not many?”

“A pathetic attempt,” he replies, moving his head just enough that he can crack one eye open and glare at the boy. “Many, is the right answer. Many and varied. And the damn Healer had me talk about it. My mother, Timothy.”

“I—ugh. I—have cream puffs? For you?”

Itachi freezes, every muscle tensing as he focuses on the child. “Cream puffs?” He says, mild as death.

“I am just—going to get them.” Timothy backs off, torn between panic and laughter, letting Itachi collapse into his pseudo-nest. On one hand, he shouldn’t eat sugar. On the other hand—Walburga Black.

Whatever cream-puffs are, he will demolish them.

* * *


	9. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Free--

The Snape Situation resolves itself. Mainly an unspoken agreement to never mention it springs to life, fully formed and undiscussed. If Snape wanted to bring it up, he didn’t show it in any way. Itachi, of course, would rather stab his eyes out than embroil himself even deeper in pre-teen drama. No, they built a very workable quasi-professional relationship, where Itachi learns about potions and reminds Slytherins not to fuck with the Halfblood. The redhead stays away from him—well away from him—and that’s perfectly fine with him.

While his pact of ignorance with Snape is working beautifully, he knows the Slytherin situation is going to become problematic one of these days. The Slytherins still don’t know what to make of him. His infamy works to establish him as, well, someone not to be messed with. Their parents have doubtlessly instructed their children to be wary. On the other hand, his badgers are either Muggleborn or Halfbloods, and he has thusfar not responded to Fawley—or, now, to Evans. Evans called him out publicly and he has more or less rolled over and showed his neck in response. Someone there will sooner or later challenge him, and he can only hope this happens after he gets the permission to cast.

Merlin, but he dreads that day. The more time he spends with normal children, the clearer it becomes just how volatile his relationship with aggression is. His yardstick doesn’t at all apply here. His method of ‘ _de-escalate as much as possible and then escalate to the maximal possible degree_ ’ will not serve him well. It will likely result in a traumatized child, and a boatload of guilt, not to mention a suspension from Hogwarts. (It will likely end up with a dead child if he’s startled enough.)

It hasn’t even been a month. It hasn’t even been half a month, Amaterasu preserve him.

* * *

The second Monday at Hogwarts begins—badly.

He’s dropped by the Great Hall to scarf down slightly less terrible but still aggressively underwhelming food, when, well, a _fire-god_ flames into existence in front of him, drops a letter next to his plate and disappears.

The whole thing lasts perhaps a second, which is enough to plunge him straight into tachycardia. He sits, sweat beading on his forehead, hands shaking far too much to pick up the letter. It’s— _what_ —a fire-bird just— _here_ and—

He inhales a little desperately and focuses as hard as he can on the meditative tricks he learned a lifetime ago. He’s been trained for this, he knows what to do when a panic attack sneaks up at the most inopportune moment.

Breathe. In-out. C’mon, you know how this goes.

“—rius, are you okay? Should I call Healer Febru? Siri?”

“No.” He says. His voice is ruined, low and raspy as if he took sandpaper to his throat. “No, I was only—alarmed. The, ah. Letter.”

“The letter?” Who—Andrew.

“The fire-bird. I did not expect it.”

Okay. Okay. His heart slows bit by excruciating bit until he’s left sitting in a puddle of cold sweat, ears ringing and a piercing headache making his eyes hurt.

“The Headmaster has a phoenix.” Andrew again. “He’s famous for it. A phoenix familiar.”

Now hold on just one Goddamn minute. “I will call out anyone who thinks they own an immortal fire-bird.” He says. His voice is much improved, it has to be said. Now it’s nearly strangled, instead of choked. There’s a difference, depressingly.

Andrew huffs, and Timothy joins him. “Do you want to argue word choice? You nearly fainted in front of us and you want to discuss the inappropriate applications of the word ‘own’?”

Well. “I _always_ want to discuss inappropriate applications of the word ‘own’, frankly.”

Timothy snorts, without any real humour, more as a way to expel some of the nervous energy. “Got it, you weirdo. Now eat. You have some smoked salmon still, and best believe, I'm eating your leftovers.”

The salmon is delicious—one bright spot in an otherwise drab meal. Which his badgers have noticed immediately and take care to mention at every opportunity. Many a cat simile has been made. Especially if the fish is served with cream and dill.

“Here.”

A cream-puff graces the plate set in front of him, whole and perfect. Timothy bribed an older student to cast preserving and impervious charms on the box, which he now carries with him at all times as incentive or reward. It’s—yeah. Incredibly effective, not to mention endearing and Itachi is already planning a suitably grand present for Yule as repayment. 

With a love-struck sigh, he devours the blissful piece of cloudy goodness.

“That will never get old.” Says Young—Noah. “How over the top you are about everything.”

He knows what they’re doing—they’re distracting him. Amping up the ignorance and giving him the chance to get lost in playing the clueless noble. Not being an idiot, he grabs the distraction and runs with it. “First of all, I am savouring a gift by a most thoughtful young Gentlewizard. Second of all, Lady Warnock prepared these, as you well know. Lady Warnock, Noah. Prepared my food. Ex _cuse_ me for taking the time to bask in the honour.”

“For pity’s sake.” Says Timothy, slight whine to his voice matching the embarrassed but pleased flush to his cheeks. “Will you stop being in love with my mother’s brain? It’s weird, Siri, it’s so weird.”

“It is not.” He says easily, so, so grateful for the game. “Do you know how many Wizarding ethicists there are in England today? Zero, that’s how many. Now, I’m not saying Muggle ethics apply perfectly—or even very well—to the Magical world. But the thinkers, the concepts, they’re centuries ahead of where we are. Millenia perhaps.”

“This will never not be funny.” Says Andrew. He’s playing up his exasperation, but there is honest humour there too. The boy is a decent actor, well beyond his peers, but Itachi has adult-privileges. “Sorry, just. No offence to your mum—but I’ve never seen a kid be so obsessed with something as boring as philosophy.”

“It’s weird, is what it is. And it’s always just mum, too. Dad is a philosopher too, and he—”

“He’s a what now,” says Itachi, not even playing at this point. “Your father? Master Warnock?”

Timothy blushes even brighter and groans under his breath. “I can’t believe I said that. What type of an idiot just—Yes, Siri. My dad is a philosopher, too. He’s a professor at Oxford.”

Itachi leans forward, making his eyes big and watery. “And you’ve never said. How—why—aren’t you proud—”

“No— _no_!” Says Timothy sternly. “I did not fall for this last time, and I’m not falling for this now. Yes, he teaches philosophy; no, I’m not going to tell you more about it ‘cause I honestly don’t get the first thing about it. Something about language. I don’t know. It’s all gibberish as far as I’m concerned.”

“Is he published too? Do you have any of his books I could find?” He says, making sure his voice goes a bit breathy and fluttery. He’s overdoing it but not by much. Philosophy is just such a fascinating bit of human ingenuity. It’s definitely the area the two worlds are most different. Thinking changed very slowly in the Elemental Nations, and just slightly faster in the Magical world. In the Muggle world, though, there are hundreds if not thousands of perfectly valid schools of thought about everything from political systems to one’s relationship with one’s self-concept.

“I think so? He’s not like mum, though. He’s more, like, old-school. Academic papers and that.”

“Timothy.” He says, all earnestness. “I must read them. I _must_. Any man found worthy by your mother must be a phenomenal thinker. Be reasonable Timothy—think of it as educating the next generation of political actors. Do you want a morally bankrupt Noble voting in laws and regulations?”

“I’ve completely lost control of the conversation.” Says Timothy. “Fine, you nuisance. I will do you one better. Come visit me over the hols, and I will give you a hand-picked set of works by both of them, and you get to pick their brains over dinner or something.”

Itachi blinks, shaken out of his playful head-space. A wave of anxiety makes words stick in his throat and a subtle tremble shakes his fingers. “You would—invite me to your home?” He says. “You don’t have to do that. I appreciate the gesture, but we can meet in a restaurant or a museum. You don’t have to—I mean—”

“Is this a cultural thing?” Asks Timothy after a beat of silence just on the other side of awkward. “Did I, I don’t know, propose?”

“No,” says Andrew. “He is just anxious because he’s Heir of a notoriously Dark House and you are inviting him into your Muggle home. Well—Wizards don’t invite people over willy-nilly, what with the Wards, but yeah, it’s ‘cause you’re you and he’s him.”

“Oh. Okay.” Timothy pauses again, chewing on this, while Itachi feels like he’s about to spontaneously combust. Which is odd. He is way too old and way too traumatized to be brought down by a little social anxiety. But this isn’t social anxiety, is it? It’s kindness. This child is kind to you. Kinder than you deserve. (So much kinder than you deserve.) Of course someone as blood-soaked as you would have issues with that.

“So, I’m not going to ignore you because you’re obviously very upset but. Maybe we can talk about it later? I just want you to know I do absolutely invite you to my house, no matter who your parents are. Or your family, whatever.”

“Later, then.” He says, with a smile so mechanical he feels very much like a wind-up toy from Konoha. “Thank you nevertheless.”

Mood thoroughly ruined he turns to the letter—might as well, right? He’s not afraid anymore. Anxious and sad and tired but not panicking which was kind of the goal.

Dear Mr Black,

Please join me and your Head of House at the Headmaster's tower, today at 19.30. Some developments have occurred in regards to the ongoing investigation regarding the events of August 30th.

Yours

Albus Dumbledore

He stares at the piece of parchment unblinkingly for two solid minutes, trying to glean more information. What possible new information could they have uncovered? The case is clear-cut. At most they can judge Itachi to have reacted with disproportionate force. Which, considering the circumstances, their respective ages, and the use of an Unforgivable, is hard to imagine.

Another thing that springs to mind is how curiously personal the message is. Terrifying power-moves aside, the note isn’t written on official school stationery—just a piece of parchment. There is no lengthy array of titles. Just—Albus Dumbledore.

Itachi is too old and jaded to think the Headmaster didn’t know exactly what message he was sending when he had a bird-god deliver his post. He may be trying to communicate himself to be a powerful but eccentric outsider who doesn’t stand on ceremony? Honestly, with how little first-hand knowledge the Headmaster had on hand, Itachi certainly can’t see how he could have made a more striking and impactful introduction. Blacks respect power, and if one was stupid enough to doubt the strength of the man’s magic, then the phoenix would really bring that idea home. On top of that a firm but casual message to imply a leader so confident he doesn’t need to bother with titles.

Or you’re reading way too much time into an old eccentric scholar summoning a first-year over for tea, Izanami wept. Pull yourself together.

“One moment, please.” He cranes his head as best he can—it doesn’t really help since he’s about as short as a pigeon—but spots the perfect person.

He climbs off the damn bench and tries to ignore how still his every move is accompanied by dozens of eyes. His table at least is pretty casual, even if the Slytherins zero in on him unerringly. “Merry meet, Prefect Moss. If I may have a moment of your time?”

“Of course, Black.” Says Moss. He’s no less enigmatic now than he was when they were first introduced. He has no friends, notably, or acquaintances. All of his interactions with his fellow classmates are crisp, polite and impersonal. How he had managed to keep the distance is anyone’s guess. One would think that would be Itachi’s position, as the cold aloof one. And yet he’s got half a dozen children to worry about already, and he’s only two weeks in. “What do you need?”

“I am summoned to the Headmaster’s tower tonight at 19.30. If you could escort me, that would be much appreciated.”

“That is acceptable. I will collect you after your meal. Is that all?”

He bows to the man—not a boy, not with that level of self-possession. “Thank you, Prefect. Merry part.”

* * *

He sleepwalks through his classes, to the point where even Heir Morgan sends him slightly worried looks. Timothy is beside himself, and Andrew walks half a step behind him at all times like he’s worried Itachi will start some proactive problem solving and starts stabbing. Himself, possibly.

It's not at all clear why he’s so rattled by it all. He can’t be in real trouble with the law—and Grandfather would strike what few might apply, to keep his Heir out of trouble. Regulus is safe, or Kreacher would have gotten him already. So—

Moss plucks him from his half-hearted attempt at dinner and escorts him to the Headmaster’s tower without bothering with ineffectual conversation. Small mercies.

The gargoyle is animated. It’s not obvious immediately, but it moves very, very slightly. Is it animated rock, or is it an autonomous, inorganic life-form? Why not, honestly—they have dragons here, and unicorns, and barghests, all of which exist pretty much only because they’re chock-full of magic

He bows to it politely. If gargoyles were anything like Goblins, they don’t appreciate human rudeness. “Merry meet, sir. I have an appointment with the Headmaster at 19.30.”

The gargoyle ignores him almost well enough that he (it? they?) almost look inanimate. Which is to say, Itachi does in fact notice the minute twitch of their ear. Alright, then.

With how floaty he was the entire day, it’s easy to slip into something of a daze and wait the Headmaster out. If there is a password, neither Moss nor the Headmaster had informed him. If he’s late, it’s on them.

By the time the gargoyle jumps(!) to the side(!) he’s—not mellow, but workably numb. Whatever fucking drama awaits, at least he’s not going into it with a racing heart rate. 

Albus Dumbledore’s force of personality hits him like a sledgehammer between the eyes. He slinks inside, a skinny little nothing of an eleven-year-old, held together by spite and neuroses and freezes in the face of how vibrant the Headmaster is. It’s not even just the physical aspect—although that’s enough to stop a bull in its tracks—but the magic and tangible air of vitality surrounding him that makes his eyes water and throat go dry.

_Holy fucking shit._ Alright. The dazed feeling increases until he’s, well, drunk, kind of.

He stares at the Headmaster, frozen in the entryway, for—not too long. Fifteen seconds perhaps? Totally understandable. Reasonable, even. Professor Woodward clears her throat and breaks the daze.

“Oh, pardon me. Merry meet, Headmaster Dumbledore, Professor Woodward, Auror Shacklebolt.” He rushes to say, bowing a bit lower than appropriate to make up for the faux pas.

“Welcome, my boy.” Hums the Headmaster, a kind—not insincere, he’s pretty sure—smile on his slightly wrinkled face. “Please, come in, take a seat. Lemon drop?”

The seat he’s offered is just about his height, which is a kindness he’s not often afforded. When he sits down, it rises, so he’s not dwarfed by the Headmaster’s desk. Considering the man is about two meters tall at least, his desk is taller than Itachi, and significantly so.

“Pardon me? Lemond drop?” He asks, completely baffled by all this good cheer. This is not how adults behave.

The Headmaster wiggles his fingers theatrically, and a bowl of something grows legs and crab-walks his way. Itachi’s lips twitch helplessly. What on—

“Is that—candy?” He asks, much more invested.

“Indeed it is, my boy. Muggle confectionary that happens to be my favourite.”

Sugar. There is _sugar_ in his future—

“Mister Black, need I remind you of Healer Febru’s orders?”

He slumps back into his seat. Although—is he prepared to miss the chance to try a new dessert? Possibly for years?

“Surely, Professor, I can try one?” He says, sending his best woebegone orphan look her way. “How much sugar could one piece contain?”

Professor Woodward spears him with a stern look but relents after a long heartbeat. “Just the one. You have been diligent in following your healer’s orders. I will not see you break that streak now.”

The candy is—

“This is _disgusting_ , Headmaster.” He says, sending him an amazed glance. “What are they called? Can I buy them in Diagon?”

The Headmaster beams back, wide and mischievous. “Lemon drops, my boy. I can see they’ve ensnared you as they had me. They are fascinating, are they not?”

Itachi nods furiously. “It’s like they combined every negative trait a candy can have, and none of the good ones. It’s cloyingly sweet, but also unpleasantly sour, and it is both too soft to suck and too sticky to chew.”

The words trickle back into his own mind, and he pauses for a moment, wondering at just what the fuck is happening to him. Here he sits, in the office of one of the most powerful Wizards alive, and he’s talking about the mouth-feel of muggle candy. He just said the word ‘suck’ to the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.

“Just-so my boy. Well phrased. I came across them by accident—”

“Headmaster, I do hate to interrupt.” Says Auror Shacklebolt. Ah. Yes. He forgot about Auror Shacklebolt. Itachi’s eyes fall to half-mast, and his eyes go slightly cloudy at the sound of the man’s voice.

(A small part of his mind left more or less sane is too mortified to even shriek at him. He’s so far out of it, he acts like he’s drugged to the gills, and for no particular reason. Why not? The way his life has gone recently, why not lose every molecule of dignity the moment he’s among powerful political figures that will shape his life for years to come?)

“—going soon. It’s a busy day, as you may be aware of.” Whoops, he zoned out.

“Very well, Auror.” Sighs the Headmaster, with a teasing (!) lilt. “If you insist.”

Before his eyes, the image of an affable, insane genius is folded up and tucked away, until an eminently respectable older Gentlewizard sits before him as if he had never left.

Itachi blinks at him tiredly, a bit fed up with these Wizards and their nonsense. Is this another Frank situation? Is the Headmaster gaslighting the entire world too?

“As much as I would like to talk about more pleasant topics, I am afraid the news is grim. Auror, if you would?”

“Of course. Merry meet, Heir Black.”

Itachi bows sitting down as best he can. “Heir Shacklebolt.”

“Let me first assure you. Your brother and Grandfather are in perfect health.”

“Oh thank the Lady.” He breathes, tension seeping out of him until he’s little more than a puddle of dazed wizardling.

Auror’s voice warms slightly, before flowing back into the stiff, professional cadence. “Indeed. The situation is relatively simple. Your father, one Orion Black, has passed awayearly this morning.”

Itachi blinks. Blinks again. And again. Alright? That’s—

“Was he—attacked?” He says, uncertainly. “Is that the problem? Someone killed him while he was in custody?”

“No. I’m afraid not. He died as a result of his—injuries.”

Huh. He swallows, digging deep—is he upset that he killed his second father? Two out of two? Not—really? Fugaku at least had a reason, Orion was just a psychopath.

“Okay. Okay.” He says, letting his tone sound as lost as he’s feeling.

“The reason I’m here, however, is that the details were—leaked to the press.” The Auror’s syrupy voice grows tight, a bit ashamed. “It will be in the evening Prophet.”

Itachi gives into the urge and grinds the palms of his hand into his eyes. “I don’t _follow_ the Prophet, Auror Shacklebolt. My Grandfather assures me I should not read it as it will only upset me. Why is this any different?”

“The circumstances of death.” Says Shacklebolt, every word picked carefully, measured and crisp. “Were unusual. It—we’re concerned that you might be in danger in the future because of it.”

Itachi sends him a level look. “Please, Auror, don’t exaggerate. Remember who brought me up. I know about the gruesome ways magic can kill someone. I stabbed Orion Black with my wand. I didn’t even cast. It can’t be that noteworthy.”

“I—” the Auror pauses, uncharacteristically, and sends a subtly pleading look at the Headmaster. “Perhaps you might explain, Professor.”

“It _was_ noteworthy, Heir Black.” Says Dumbledore, tone perfectly even, not warm, not cold. Neutral. “Because you somehow destroyed his ability to channel magic. Since he was a Wizard—an inherently magical being—he could not survive even after his superficial wounds were taken care of.”

“I did no such thing.” He says, unshakably confident.

“Mm. Perhaps I could have phrased that better. You somehow disrupted the internal magic system to the point where he could not retain or direct magic. It would just—pass through him. Like a sieve.”

Ouch. That sounds unpleasant.

“Alright,” he says slowly. “If you forgive me for being blunt, but that sounds much better than, say, the Cruciatus. Speaking from experience. “

Many things flicker through Headmaster’s blue eyes, much too quickly for him to put a finger on. “Well. I agree with you. The populace will not. Not as such. Effectively removing magic from a magical person is considered—a fate much worse than death. Now, we three know you did no such thing, and what happened was likely that a large and aggressive influx of foreign magic ruptured his core. That is precisely the reason Auror Shacklebolt tried his utmost to keep this revelation under wraps. Unfortunately, it was not to be. By this time tomorrow, Wizarding Britain will learn Heir of House Black is capable of stripping people of their magic.”

Itachi thinks that over once. Twice. Three times.

Finally, he gives up. “Professor,” he says, turning to Professor Woodward. “Is this a big deal? Cause it doesn’t _sound_ like it’s a big deal. It sounds like it’s more of the same. Bad press, muttered insults. Little Black is coming to eat your babies in the night, and all that. ”

Professor Woodward sighs like the living embodiment of late autumn. Like winds rustling through the bushes and leaves crunching underfoot. “As far as I can tell such things, yes. I would say this falls under, as you say, ‘big deal’. You will be both vilified and courted for this ability. I assure you want nothing to do with either group.”

“I don’t have this ability though,” he says, fully aware of how much of a whine runs through his tone.

“I’m sorry, Heir Black? Do you want to discuss the inherent lack of honesty in the media?”

“Alright, alright, fair point.” He settles back into his seat shamelessly slumping back. It’s a comfy chair. He needs all the comfort he can get. “Alright. So. What do you want me to do?”

“Do?” Says the Headmaster, wholly unreadable. “Nothing at all, Heir Black. You need to be aware, and wary. The Aurors and myself will be extra vigilant this year, to prevent any negative attention that might come to you at the school.”

“I should probably sign something about consenting to my mail being screened? I don’t go anywhere alone anyways, what with being, well, almost dead. Oh—my Grandfather—he will probably hire a team. Private security type thing. He had a team stationed at my hospital room after, y’know. The thing. Would that be okay?”

The Headmaster brightens the longer Itachi rambles. The crab-bowl click-clacks over the table once more. Professor Woodward caves at Itachi’s pathetic look, and nods her head briskly. “Oh alright, this once. But I will be notifying Healer Febru, and she will adjust your daily potion regime.”

He delights in the lemon drop induced violence happening to his mouth, so much so that Auror Shacklebolt’s words almost pass him by entirely.

“As it happens, Heir Black, your mail is already screened, at Lord Black’s request. An Auror team will be monitoring the mail, and we will be in touch with the Headmaster. If we see a notable uptick in more—inappropriate missives, we will negotiate with the School about stationing a team of Aurors temporarily. Other than that, the matter of safety will be largely between you and your instructors. Now, unless you have any further questions, I must return as swiftly as I can.”

“Merry part.” What else. There is something else. “Thank you for letting me know.”

Auror Shacklebolt’s professional expression falters for a moment, brow furrowing. “Please, don’t thank me. This case has been handled poorly. Rest assured, whoever leaked this to the Prophet will be found.”

“Honestly, Heir Shacklebolt, the lack of privacy is not my chief concern right now. Things will settle down.”

The smile he gets for his trouble is small and wholly insincere, but it’s the thought that counts. “Merry part, Heir Black, Professors.”

What now?

“Thank you for not suspending me.” He says after a moment’s pause. “I realize I am making your lives complicated by all this.”

The gentle smile on the Headmaster’s face is somewhat undercut by the rage sparking in his eyes. “What kind of a school would we be, if we could not keep one eleven-year-old student from bodily harm? You have been an exemplary student so far. We would not punish you for circumstances outside of your control.”

“I agree.” Nods Professor Woodward. “I have spoken to you about my concerns, and so far it appears they were entirely unfounded. You are not a disruptive presence in any way. Even if we wanted to, we would not have grounds to suspend you.”

He nods, swallowing down a grimace. “Do you expect things to escalate to assault? If it’s just negative media attention, that is easy enough to ignore.”

“This situation is unprecedented.” Says the Headmaster. “I don’t recall a student being in the public eye as much as you in my tenure at Hogwarts. That having been said, I remain hopeful that you will simply have to abstain from reading the Prophet for the next few months. That your behaviour disproves the more outlandish claims is to your benefit.”

Itachi nods, entirely without a clue how things proceed from here. “I suspect my Grandfather will contact you regarding. The funeral and. My obligations.” Okay, so that’s concerning. Whenever his sentences start growing this choppy it’s time to skedaddle.

“Ah yes—”

Whatever the Headmaster planned to say is interrupted by a whoosh of fire and a not-there melody. Itachi stares, transfixed as between one moment and the next, the god-bird appears at the porch next to the window.

“Ah, Fawkes, what fortuitous timing you have. Meet young Sirius Black, a student at our school. Mister Black, my dear friend Fawkes.”

The fire-bird is bigger than he remembers it. Without the paralyzing fear, he can appreciate just how otherworldly the being is.

“Merry meet,” he says, voice thin and reedy. “I am honoured.”

Fawkes’ eyes are, in keeping with the theme, fiery. An ever-changing whirlpool of yellows and oranges and reds. With an imperious chirp, it opens its wings and flies straight into his chair, tucking the beak under his neck.

Once he recovers from having all of his air punched out by a bird heavier than he is, he trips straight into a bizarre sort of in-between world where his mind has officially given up on trying to make sense of things. He sits obediently and smoothes his hands down the firebird's feathers and just. Breathes.

“I’m fine.” He answers the birds chiding croon. “Thank-you. Your flames are very beautiful.”

“Yes, well, humans are fragile. I was in a fight. It wasn’t a good idea.”

“See—I’d believe that if your beak wasn’t sharp enough to cut silk. What do you need your claws for, then, o pacifist god-bird?”

“Agree to disagree. Just because I was stupid enough to get in over my head doesn’t mean—”

“Actually—I don’t know if you’re familiar with the work of Foucault—”

The Headmaster clears his throat gently and Itachi stops his rambling chat about modern French philosophy. “While I can think of few things I would enjoy more than watching such a spirited discussion, I’m afraid it’s getting quite late. Healer Febru will string me up by my ankles if I kept her patient up past their bedtime.”

Walking is—not impossible, but it is certainly going to be a trial. He stands on shaky legs and does his best impression of a bow without actually moving his head too much. “Merry part.”

“I will escort you, Mister Black.” Says Professor Woodward. “Considering how events congregate around you, I do not trust you to make it to the dorms unscathed. Goodnight, Albus.”

“Good-night.”

* * *

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On slang: In case it wasnt very clear: In the interest of immersion, Im going to use modern slang—or at least what passes for modern for me, having somehow become old and irrelevant. There’s no point in trying to mimic the British slang from the seventies because I won’t be able to use it correctly, or at all convincingly. So, yeah. It's not important that you know this, but since i cant imitate a native, i want to at least brag about my self-awareness
> 
> Mouth-feel because in this house, we stand for Contrapoints.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> -fall

The hush that falls over the student body over breakfast is—

“What did you do now?” Says Timothy.

“I don’t particularly want to talk about it.” He tries to keep his tone light, but some of his internal state must leak through because Timothy’s teasing expression shifts into a tense one.

“Is it—are you okay?”

“He’s a murderer, is what he is.” Huh. Not Fawley, for once. It’s an upperclassman, a girl of, what, fourteen, fifteen?

“As I said, I do not want to talk about it.” The smile sits on his face oddly, he is aware. Too fixed, too threatening. It’s not the most politic way of dealing with this, but he is conditioned to react to direct aggression in very specific ways. This is skirting close to the outside limit of his self-control.

“Oh my god, Siri—”

“Sure, let’s comfort the murderer, like that’s—”

“Come off it, Lang, the kid is eleven—”

Well. He drags his eyes over the dishes on offer today—the elves went all out. There’s two, four, six, seven types of fish, sitting on little beds of steamed rice, several servings of fruit, even a bowl of melon.

The day he allows jumped-up bratlings to bully him away from sashimi is the day his blood is gathering dust on the floor. He ignores the arguments that bloom ever louder and sits down at his spot. The only thing that would make this better is if he had chopsticks, but nobody can have it all.

“Students.” The Headmaster doesn’t need to raise his voice to be heard. He stands up, and the invisible swell of magic pulses, once, twice, three times. “What happened to late Orion Black was a magical accident. Nothing more. It is beyond foolish to blame this death on his eleven-year-old son. I cannot force you to not be foolish, but I can insist that you keep your ignorance to yourselves. Do not force my hand.”

“Detention, Lang, until Yule,” says Professor Woodward. “I will not have you shame our House with bigotry.”

Itachi keeps his head down, eats his food and ignores the world.

* * *

The first attack comes pretty soon. Well—he says attack. It’s not _at all_ that. It’s a prank curse, harmless and humiliating. He’s tired, but he’s not dead. Thirty centimetres to the right, ten to the left, spin a little on your heel and voila. If he tries—which he does, since he is who he is—he can make it pretty, even. It’s just about the only thing that can make his badgers smile, so he indulges them and spins and twirls out of the way with all the flourish he can wring out of his body.

Hufflepuff House is still uncertain as to how to deal with him. So far most are content with side-glances and whispered comments. They are, to Itachi’s mind, more afraid than angry. Whatever the Prophet wrote must have been lurid, to provoke this level of genuine fear.

His badgers, however, Andrew, Noah and Timothy, don’t falter for so much as a moment. They bracket him in the corridors as best they can and keep their chins up. First class of the day is Herbology, Hufflepuff paired with Ravenclaw. The eagles are less reserved than the badgers are—they don’t even pretend they wouldn’t enjoy watching his live dissection.

History of Magic is next—this time with the Slytherins. He’s not naive enough to think Slytherins won’t ever pose a threat to him, but for now, he’s safer among the snakes than among his own house-mates. While his alleged Dark Magic proficiency and general villainy has left him in hot water with three-quarters of the school, he has only grown in the eyes’ of the snakes. They all look at him with respect liberally tinged with fear and stay well the fuck away. The third class is Charms. Charms with the Gryffindors.

Sage help him.

“Sirius!” Says James, skipping over to Itachi’s customary seat next to Andrew, in the furthest seat in the back of the middle row. “Darling. You don’t owl, you don’t floo. How am I supposed to explain to Aunt ‘Rea that I’ve failed to woo her favourite nephew?”

“Merry meet, James.” He says, propping his head up with one hand. “Lady Potter will forgive you, I’m sure. Now, Aunt Cassie on the other hand—”

“Don’t talk to me about your Aunt Cassie—” He trails off, sighing. “She came to the Ministry today to express her thoughts about the drama, dressed in a dress made out of blood. Uncle sent me photos. She literally wore an animated layer of blood, Siri—I will never be able to top that.”

“Nobody can match Aunt Cassie,” Itachi says “Although a blood-dress is a little on the nose.”

“It was _magnificent_. But enough about that. How’s your day going? Murder any schoolchildren in cruel and unusual ways?”

Itachi’s mood lifts by the word out of baby-Potter’s mouth. “Not yet. The day, as they say, is still young.”

“Merlin, why does my cousin talk like an old man? Speaking of, I wasn’t going to say anything, but I’m afraid my heart can’t bear this any longer. Here you are, sitting with your friends, and you don’t think to introduce me.” He leans forward, tilting his head just-so, hazel eyes widening. “Are you ashamed of me, Sirius? Is that what this is?”

Entirely against his will, a little smile sneaks onto his face. My, even Kisame wasn’t this bold. Even Shisui. “Who could ever be ashamed of you?” He says, letting some of the fondness lift up his voice. James blinks a little, and the playful, sly expression slips into something a little vulnerable. “You make a good point. I have been rude.”

He stands up and nods his head a little. “James, meet my companions, Andrew Clarke, Noah Young and Timothy Warnock. Fellow badgers, meet James Potter, my cousin, Heir to Noble House Potter.”

The three badgers who have been listening to their exchange with, perhaps more interest than was warranted, nod, too shocked to really say anything.

“Charmed,” says James—beams, really. “It is not every day you see such genuine loyalty, even among badgers. Sirius has been lucky.”

“I am.” Hums Itachi, a bit amused at the three answering blushes.

“Now, before I leave you, one quick question? Siri, darling, apple of my eye, keeper of my heart, do you happen to know the Words of House Potter?”

“I do indeed,” he says, touched. Even for James, this is a lot. “ _Habemus custodimus_.”

“Right you are. Habemus custodimus. _What we have, we keep_.” James eyes the subtly and not-so-subtly eavesdropping children. “Food for thought. See you at dinner, cousin-mine. I will be eager to hear about how your day has gone.”

What a vicious little monster. Who’d have guessed he shares no blood with the Blacks? “Merry part.”

James saunters off to the seat he shares with a lion. Not Lupin, sadly, but another mousy little boy. Then it’s time for class—more precisely, time to ignore the pitying look sent by Professor Flitwick, and keep his fangs nice and tucked behind his lips. He is but a humble schoolchild.

* * *

Lunch, today, happens in the kitchens. He’s gotten enough jinxes sent at him today to know that his badgers’ one advantage is that nobody has thought to aim at them. They are very public in their support, after all. This level of public stigma—most of it from Ravenclaws, but with a fair few Gryffindors thrown in—is harder on them than it is on Itachi.

Timothy is, unsurprisingly, handling it best. It is unclear how, exactly, his parents managed to raise a uniquely self-possessed child, but it’s a recipe Itachi _has_ to learn. Noah is next. His redheaded friend is, well, shy at the best of times. He hates conflict but doesn’t fear it, as far as Itachi could tell. No, the problem child in this case is Andrew. Andrew whose spine grows more and more straight, until he looks brittle enough to shatter into stardust.

The food is—okay. With how strange this day has been, he doesn’t have the energy to hype himself up for the meal. He eats what’s put in front of him, and lets his badgers decompress in their own time.

Timothy is the first one to break the silence. “I—I can’t believe this.” He sounds dazed, and all sorts of betrayed. “You—you’re a _kid_. They’re blaming _you_ for—You’re eleven—And it’s a clear-cut case of self-defence—”

“I’m also a Black,” he says, keeping his voice light. “Dark, evil, all that good stuff. Don’t worry about me. It’s just bad press.”

“It’s not, though.” Says Noah. “Right? This is what your meeting was about yesterday? They knew this would happen. And they’re worried about it.”

Well, now. “Do you want to know? Stop and think—how much do you want to know? You’re also eleven. You deserve peace. It’s not too late to look after yourselves. I would swear an oath that I do not mind.”

“Oh shut up,” says Andrew. “We’re Hufflepuffs. Loyalty and all that. Answer the question.”

“I had to try. I don’t like seeing you mixed up in my drama. And this will get worse before it gets better.”

“Seems to me the entire Wizarding world is mixed up with your drama, Siri.” Says Timothy, not unkindly. “So—is Noah right? Are the adults worried about this?”

“He’s not wrong. My father did die, and the Auror in charge of the case tried very hard to keep that information private. Someone leaked it to the Prophet, and now—well. There might be a security team in Hogwarts to make sure everyone’s safe.”

“But why?” The sound is punched out of Timothy. “This is _crazy_ —you are aware, right? This is sick. If you told me you had to eat your father’s still warm body to survive, I’d just give you a hug and tell you that you did nothing wrong.”

“It’s the magic.” Says Andrew, audibly unhappy that he has to be devil’s advocate. “Allegedly Sirius took away his father’s magic and left him alive afterwards. Now, I doubt that’s true, but that’s the fear. To remove magic from someone is—yeah. That’s why.”

“ _He tortured him_.” Shrills Timothy. “We all see it—we see how you’re still in pain Siri—and, fine, in the beginning, I told myself—he’s rich, powerful and unconcerned. Leave it alone. But now—this is nuts. It’s terrible. There are _laws_ —”

Itachi tilts his head a little. Timothy is getting uncharacteristically riled up. “Hey, now. Let’s not all lose perspective. So far it’s just—bad press. I am still all those things—rich, powerful, unconcerned. This will blow over. The trial was always going to be messy. This is just—getting it over with.”

“I hate it.” Says Timothy, looking about as miserable as Itachi has ever seen him. “I hate that you are so calm about it. I hate that you have to listen to people telling you how you should not have defended yourself. I hate that it’s legal to use your pain to sell papers.”

Itachi pauses for a long moment, confused and battling his own inklings of rage. No, come on now, you know nothing good can happen if you lose it. You’re way too insane for that. “Hey, so.” He says, dragging each word out, not sure himself if this is a good idea. “I have a proposal. Please, feel free to ignore it, ignore me. But you three—you’re under a lot of pressure. Being around me. I’ve put you in situations you have no framework for. Do you think you would maybe want to—talk to someone about it. A professional, like am doing?”

“You want us to go to therapy?” Asks Timothy, equal parts surprised and considering. “That’s—huh. I’m already in therapy, of course, but that’s back in London—”

“You’re in therapy?” Asks Noah, alarmed.

Timothy blinks at them, head tilting slightly. “You’re not? You find out you’re practically a different species and that you will outlive everyone you know and love by like, a hundred years, and your parents don’t think you need some help with that?”

While his three badgers sit in semi-embarrassed shock, Itachi feels like he’s having an epiphany. “That explains so much,” he says. “That’s why you’re so calm and wise and thoughtful all the time.”

Timothy wheezes, sending him an alarmed look. The blush that lights up his cheeks is scarlet and sort of patchy. “Okay, first of all, I am not. Shut up. Second of all, therapy is a perfectly sensible, normal thing.”

“So would you go?” Itachi asks before Andrew or Noah can burst out with the objections he can see forming behind their eyes. “I have something of a special arrangement with my Mind-healer, but you don’t need such extensive security measures I think.”

“Terrible.” Mutters Timothy. “That even your therapist would sell you out. But also—not the point. I would talk to my parents? They are in charge of all that stuff. But yeah, yeah I would love to talk to someone, in general. My therapist in London only talked to me about like, othering and learning how to accept living in a new place. He never thought to prepare me for, I don’t know, hostile media and lethal amounts of fame.”

Izanami wept, this child. This child is unreal.

“What about you guys?” Says Timothy. The glint of determination in his eyes is quickly hidden, but not quickly enough that Itachi hasn’t spotted it. He relaxes, busying himself with food, temporarily filtering out their voices. Even if the other two don’t think they need it, Timothy will wear them down.

“To change the topic drastically, do you wanna talk about your cousin James?” Asks Timothy, once the savoury part of the meal is through, and they’re down to desserts in their case and a bowl of chia pudding with banana in Itachi’s. “And how he’s the most intense kid in school. Including you, which, y’know.”

“He was making a point,” says Andrew. “And he made it well. About as subtle as a punch to the face, though.”

A small, sincere smile creeps up on Itachi’s face and relieves some of the tension in his back. “James is not what you would call subtle, no. It’s one of his most appealing traits.”

Noah ducks his head, hair falling into a heavy, red curtain. “I think it’s really cool of him. And brave. To stand up and tell everybody off like that.”

“He is a Gryffindor.” Says Timothy. “The Gryffindor. Scary, too. I wouldn’t want to cross him.”

Itachi looks at him for a long moment. “He’s scary. You’re friends with me, but James ‘look at my pretty face, can you say no to this pretty face’ Potter is scary.”

Timothy grins, pearly whites flashing, curls bouncing a little. “You’re not scary at all, actually. You’re a grumpy old man who wants all us kids to get off his lawn. Whereas Potter just threatened half of our year convincingly enough that I don’t doubt he will follow through.”

“Your idioms are ridiculous. That’s number one. James doesn’t bluff. That’s number two. Side note: if you must remember only one of those two things, remember the second one. James is Aunt Dorea’s Heir. She’d have trained him out of making empty threats a long time ago.”

“Okay then, I will.” Says Timothy, a grin spreading on his face. “Speaking of, you never mentioned Potter is your cousin. That’s low, Siri.”

Itachi’s smile turns a little wistful. He would have gladly claimed James. “We don’t share blood. It’s—complicated. My Great-Aunt is married to his Great-Uncle.” To simplify the matter, and avoid the less pleasant parts. “He claimed me on a whim.”

“Some whim.” Says Timothy, but grins. “Good on him. I’m glad you have someone like that in your family.” He pauses, looking horrified at the unintended slight. “No, I mean, not that you otherwise wouldn’t have—please ignore me, I don’t know what I’m saying.”

Itachi huffs a little, resisting the urge to ruffle the boy’s tight curls. “Don’t hurt yourself, I know what you mean.” He’s way off, for once. Other than the glaring exception, the one redeeming quality the Blacks tend to share is loyalty to the family. That stunt that James just pulled? That’s all Aunt Dorea. “I’ll bring my little brother when we get together over the holidays.” Here’s hoping that he’s not lying. “He’s the sweetest, kindest little boy you’ve ever seen.”

“I keep imagining a smaller you, and tripping up cause it can’t be physically possible to be shorter than you.” Says Timothy. James has really distracted them from the overall misery of their—Itachi’s—situation.

“Hey,” he says, with mock-offence. “That’s low. Also, Blacks are tall, as a rule. I’m just defective.”

“Bite your tongue.” Snaps Andrew, forcefully enough to make Itachi blink, taken aback. “You are no such thing.”

Noah cringes into himself, and Timothy looks just as confused as Itachi.

“Umm. I think he was joking, ‘Drew.” Timothy says, before sliding his eyes to Itachi. “You were joking, right?”

Not really. “Yes,” Itachi says, hoping it sounds convincing. “Yes, I am.”

“God save me.” Moans Timothy. “Okay, let’s just, let’s just not, okay. I—let’s just talk about—music. Or something.”

* * *

Little Black,

I do not know whether to congratulate you on your infamy or laugh at you for the rest of time. The rumour mill has been frothing about your dubious accomplishments.

The event we discussed should be postponed until spring. I am not in the business of friendly advice, but since my goals benefit by your continued existence, I am forced to break that comfortable state of being. I would strongly suggest you lay low for a few months. Several people have tried to secure my help in your kidnapping and transport to various countries around the world. Make of that what you will.

Your sorting amuses me greatly.

Tom Marvolo Riddle

***

Lord Riddle’s bird is. Well.

“Look at you,” he can’t help but gush over the giant, fluffy creature. It has piercing, yellow eyes and two very ear-like tufts, golden-brown plumage that matches its golden beak and claws. Its wingspan has to be two meters easy. It’s practically taller than Itachi. So far, so good—about what he would expect from Lord Riddle’s owl if he even had an owl. It also had an incredibly sweet disposition, almost falling over itself to get cuddles from Itachi. Oh, and it was great friends with Fawkes.

“How?” Says Timothy. “How are you doing this? Why do you have two giant birds cuddling with you so early in the morning, and why is one of them the Headmaster’s familiar?”

“The Lady flew here to give me her person’s letter.” He explains with the little sliver of his mind not melting. “And Fawkes is a Gentlephoenix who just stopped by to say hello. Nothing to see here.”

“Will you wait until I scribble a response, beautiful?” He asks the owl who chirps at him, golden beak glinting in the sun. “Excellent, thank you. Fawkes, I have the book I was talking about. Let me just finish this, and I’ll get it?”

* * *

Lord Riddle,

Thank you for your letter. I already planned on upping my security, but I will make sure to include some emergency portkeys, just in case. I am gratified by your lack of interest in my trafficking.

The golden owl is a magnificent beauty, and I am humbled that she agreed to meet me. Since she is waiting for the reply, I must be quick in my response. I can send you a list of dates when the event could take place—constrained, obviously, by Hogwarts deadlines. If you have a more concrete date in mind, please share it. I’m sure we can come to an agreement.

All the best

Sirius Black

* * *

“Who was that?” Asks Timothy, with clueless curiosity, and Itachi is immediately hit with sixteen different types of anxiety.

“Remember how I told you Wizarding world can be dangerous?”

Timothy eyes him, a little taken aback by the serious tone to his offhand question. “Yeah?”

“Well, men like the one that sent me this letter are a big part of that danger. It is my fervent desire that neither of you three even sees him—even learns his name.”

“What—why is he writing to you? Is he, like, blackmailing you? Should we tell someone—”

Still beyond disturbed by the thought of Lord Riddle and Timothy inhabiting the same plane of existence, he doesn’t succeed at softening his expression. “He is not blackmailing me. If anything, he is being uncharacteristically generous. He has picked up on some concerning rumours and warned me to lay low.”

Timothy doesn’t sag, but it’s a close thing. “Wow, that is—decent of him, I suppose.”

“It is. And I will bribe him to motivate him to remain decent. It’s a very straightforward relationship. Once more: forget the letter, the bird, and this entire conversation. It’s by far the safest option for everyone.”

“I swear, being your friend is like being a side-character in a gangster movie, or a weird adventure novel. None of this is normal, you know? I just want you to know, this is not how life works.”

He smiles at the boy. “My world is very melodramatic, yes. I know. That’s a common trait among Dark Purebloods, I’m afraid, although the Light has their own pageantry. The undeservedly wealthy have to amuse themselves somehow.”

“I’m sure. I’ll have more sympathy for the proletariat once they stop accusing eleven-year-olds of murder, thanks,” says Timothy.

“Ooh—I know that one. That was the German, no? Timothy—no, Timothy this is serious, you cannot start a conversation about equalizing the social order and then walk away—”

***

Dinner is a strange affair. Hufflepuffs have for the most part decided to block out Itachi’s existence as a whole. No hassle, no acknowledgement. It’s a brutal strategy, not for Itachi as such but for his three kids who take this kind of thing more to heart.

With Slytherin sitting this one out, Ravenclaws ready to tear him to pieces in the name of curiosity, Gryffindors are the bewildering exception. As a whole, they make their stance clear—evil murderous children who wield Dark magic aren’t welcome. And then there are the rebels. Frank Longbottom for one is uncommonly serious, sitting stiffly at his table, keeping a stern eye on the lions.

“Cousin!” Oh boy. Here we go.

“James.” He arranges his face into a smile that hurts, but James doesn’t need his churlishness. “Merry meet, cousin.”

“Don’t do that to your precious face,” he coos. “It’s disturbing and unnecessary. Leave it to your favourite cousin to cheer you up, hm? Oh, do excuse me, where are my manners? Anthony, Noah, Timothy, it has been an age. I trust you’re all taking care of yourselves?”

It’s been less than three hours, you giant pillock, he thinks fondly and enjoys the flustered mess that his friends become in the face of James Potter’s wildfire charm.

“Ah—yes, Potter.” Says Timothy, grinning through his blush. “It has been something. Don’t worry, we’ve kept your precious cousin safe.”

“Very true, very true. I can see you have, stellar work.” James hums, rocking back and forth on his heels, smile spread as far as it can go. “Please, do call me James? I’m nowhere near as uptight as our little Siri.”

Itachi huffs a small laugh, less forced than he feared. “Believe him at your own peril.”

“Anywho,” trills James. “I have a tragically full schedule tonight, so I thought I would stop by. You know, see some faces, take a look around the house of the loyal. Oh—before I forget. My Aunt and Uncle send their love.”

The basket that James gives him is a stunning piece of magic—an endlessly intricate interplay of thin wooden strips. It’s a piece of art in of itself, and in a style he can’t place from either life.

“Sunberries.” Says James in a playful tone.

Itachi inhales sharply, fingers curving into claws around the woven handle. The whispers start rippling outwards, with the two of them at the epicentre, until the entire goddamn Hall is staring at them. “James.” He says, without a clear idea where to go from here. “I—”

“I thought that would cheer you up! Didn’t I say—leave it to your favourite cousin? Now! I have to leave, there are detentions ahead and not a lot of time to do them. Toodles!”

The whirlwind of charisma tinged liberally with malice storms off, leaving Itachi with a, well, priceless bounty.

“Wow.” Says Anthony, eyes cloudy. “Your cousin is—a lot.”

He nods absently, focus hopelessly drawn by the basket in his lap.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say this whole thing is some ridiculously over the top gesture?”

Well. “You have no idea.” He unhooks the silver latch, and pries open the lid carefully. The smell of sunshine and euphoria washes over them, subtle but ridiculously overwhelming at the same time.

“Woah.” His badgers huddle closer—along with a good chunk of older Hufflepuffs who got overtaken by curiosity enough to forget their policy of avoidance. “That’s fantastic, Siri—what did you say those were?”

“Sunberries.” He repeats, keeping himself from diving mouth first into the basket by superhuman efforts. “They’re—well. If you live in Europe and your name is not Potter, they’re not only expensive but incredibly difficult to source. If your name is Potter, then it’s a matter of—picking them.”

“Expensive for you, or expensive for me?” Says Noah, joking but also not at all.

“Let’s not talk about money,” he hedges as best he can. “It’s vulgar, isn’t it?”

“Oh come off it you walnut.” Says Timothy, eyes dancing in badly suppressed humour. “I promise I won’t hold your wealth against you. Plus, y’know, it’s just berries. The fact they’re rare is the only thing that makes them valuable.”

“Don’t talk about commodity fetishism to me, Timothy Warnock.” He snaps, mouth moving on it’s own. “And no, in this case, they really are incredibly valuable. Not just as a luxury good.” A whole lot of magical creatures would do a lot for a sunberry, light and dark alike.

“Don’t duck the question, then.”

“Oh, alright.” He judges the amount of berries—a good pound and a half. “This could get you—a house probably. A decent house, in a nice neighbourhood.”

The badgers goggle at him, not having expected more than a thousand galleons or so, which okay, would have been plenty outrageous.

“What the hell, Siri.” Says Timothy, wide-eyed.

He tuts at him. “You promised not to judge me. It’s not like James bought me a house—he had access to a very valuable resource, which let him make a crazy, over the top gesture, by virtue of picking some fruit. He didn’t give me the gold equivalent.” Liar, liar. A statement like this is, well. Significant. It can be understood as a courting gift. It likely will be understood as a courting gift. What are the Potters doing?

“You could sell it, though.” Says Noah. Itachi’s hands curl around the basket protectively.

“Don’t listen to the crazy child.” He whispers to his bounty. “I would never sell you. He’s just silly.”

“Don’t baby your food, Siri.” Says Anthony, amusement overtaking the shock. “It’s weird. You don’t coo at something you will eat.”

“Fair. Now. Preservation charms won’t work on something as magical as sunberries—we finish them today, while they’re fresh. Leave me a couple to bribe my allies with.”

“They’re not allies, they’re friends.” Says Noah, not for the first time.

“They are absolutely my allies. Dig in, children. Time is a’wasting.”

They tear through the basket with the thrill of children knowing they really should be doing something wiser than this. Still, the school watches as a hundred thousand Gallons get eaten by four first-years. The taste is, predictably, heavenly, and Itachi can feel his magic thrum in delight, his aches and pains peeling off. His badgers don’t accept more than a handful between the three, so he eats and eats until he feels like he’s just a giant cloud of magic and vitality.

“Shall we, then.” His s’s and r’s slide and trip, accent slipping in and out of the deeper Chikyūgo-drawl. “There are children to bribe.”

The rounds around the tables are hilarious—there’s still a heavy cloud of resentment and disgust, but Itachi is high as you can please, and isn’t at all phased. His badgers are less buzzed than he is but are buffered by the magical euphoria enough to have silly smiles on their faces and a soft glow lighting up their features.

Frank is first, who accepts his berry with a resigned but awed air. Heir Morgan after him, then Snape and Heiress Shafiq. The snakes do a very good production of a flock of birds terrified into stillness. They watch breathlessly as an Ancient and Noble Heiress gets a berry after a Snape, and all but spontaneously combust.

Never mind that. He’s got one last person to bribe.

“Wait here, would you?”

He walks as straight as he can towards the Professors’ table. He knows his magic is unfurling, lazy and sated and is bobbing around and above him like a giant jellyfish.

“Merry meet, Professor.” He says, aiming his bow towards the somewhat blurry figure of the Headmaster. “I hate to interrupt your dinner, but would you be so kind to extend an invitation to Fawkes?”

“Not at all, my boy.” The laughing blue eyes twinkle at him, and Itachi fights the urge to fall on his ass and stare at the pretty magic.

The matter settles itself decisively when Fawkes flames into his lap and knocks him to the ground. “Fawkes!” He says, happily nuzzling into the feathers, inhaling the fresh scent of ozone and bergamot. “I have a gift. Offering, if you will.”

He fishes out a handful of berries and doesn’t flinch when the golden beak snaps them from his hand, tickling his palm.

“Did you enjoy the book?”

“Oh tosh, don’t start. I have another one, actually, that you will like—”

He manages to stagger to his feet, arms full of fire-bird that started to preen his hair with his beak. “Did you hear—Timothy’s father is also a philosopher, and he will get me some of his texts, isn’t that just—”

With halting steps, he manages to carry himself and his—friend? Godly patron? Benevolent overlord? Carry Fawkes to his friends and out of the room. “I was hoping to catch some Kreacher-time, actually. Do you want to tag along?” Fawkes trills, starting from a mid-point alto to a blood-pumping soprano, a whirlwind of a sound spiralling into the heavens.

“Smashing—”

***


	11. Chapter ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stitching together two parts of one's world.

Kreacher brings Regulus with him.

Itachi’s heart stops, starts, stops again. Regulus—here—Hogwarts—

“Reg—”

“Tachi—”

They collide, in a sense. Regulus launches himself bodily at him, and Itachi drops the Phoenix, the basket, drops _every single fucking thing_ to catch him.

Regulus is crying—weeping without a shred of control. Silently, just to mangle Itachi’s heart further. If not for the growing dark patch spreading over the high neck of his robes, and the subtle tremble in his shoulders, Itachi might not have spotted it.

He inhales deeply, caught between panic at the sight of his brother’s tears and familiar wave of love from the combination of soft curls and the sharp, electric smell of Reg’s magic. The sunberry-induced haze clears a little, thank fuck, but not all the way. Just enough to make any efforts to remain a civilized human person that much more difficult.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers into the curls. “I’ve missed you like a lost limb, little brother. I am at best barely functional without you there to keep me out of trouble.”

Regulus continues crying silently, and Itachi settles in for a wait—

Somebody approaches and Itachi’s head snaps up, eyes zeroing in at the potential threat—who dares come near his defenceless brother when he’s so vulnerable—

Timothy jerks back, both hands in the air. “Siri—do you want to take this to our room?”

They’re in the Common room—fuck. It’s empty for now, but not for long—why the fuck did he call Kreacher here?

“The boy-child is right, starshine.” Says Kreacher. “Kreacher managed to bring an extra, but it was noted. How long we stay depends on the goodwill of the Headmaster. Lord Black expects us back soon.”

Itachi’s mind stutters, stumbles. Too many things are happening—Regulus--Fawkes—Kreacher—Orion—

Fawkes croons, the sound diving deep instead of soaring high. The timbre of it rattles, spreading like lightning from the top of his head into the floor, using his body as a conduit. The almost-command to be calm helps, actually, keeps his heart from racing and causing further drama.

“To the room, then.” Great, good idea. How? At nine, the boy is Itachi’s height, and significantly heavier. He could only carry him with magic, which is a terrible idea.

“Reggie, we need to move. Please, dear-heart—”

Kreacher snaps his fingers, and suddenly his brother is weightless, suspended in the air like a perfectly balanced balloon. With how tightly the boy was wrapped around him, he doesn’t budge an inch.

He turns to his three badgers, wild-eyed and manic. The three boys look back—he can’t quite judge their expressions, not with how bewildered he is by this. They don’t look aggressive, which is enough. “You go first?” He manages to tone down his own aggression enough that it comes out as a question. Good enough—he sounds lost and a little plaintive, but if a little dignity is all he needs to sacrifice to get out of this without hurting anyone, he will fucking take it. This shitshow couldn’t be better tailored to drive him round the twist—he hasn’t spoken to Regulus in weeks, hasn’t seen or heard from him at all and suddenly he appears, crying and devastated, on the day their father died. 

“Of course.” Says Timothy, entirely subdued. Even his tight curls seem to droop. “C’mon guys.”

“No, what, wait—” Says Andrew, urgency deepening his soprano. “No, really. You—We should let you two—catch up. Talk.”

Itachi takes in a sharp breath, stringing together a small thread of patience. Be nice to your kids. They’re good kids. “Do whatever you want, but do it now. I am not wasting a single fucking second with my brother.” Perfect.

“Okay.” Says Timothy. His voice is off—scared a little. Sad. “Okay. Okay. You go ahead to the room and me and the boys will just—stay here, then? Come get us if you want us.”

Itachi grimaces at him, trying at a wordless apology. Whatever appears on his face only makes his badgers flinch. “Sorry—I’m sorry. I’m alright. I just—need a moment with my brother.”

“Take all the time you need.” Says Noah, crushing his fingers together.

Itachi nods, satisfied enough. “Alright, bright-star,” he says under his breath. “We’re safe. Let’s go.”

The brief pause has done absolutely nothing to calm Regulus. He’s still tucked into Itachi as far as he could go, body curled and trembling. That he is silent makes it so much worse.

Kreacher follows silently, after nodding briefly to his badgers. “This is our room, and this—” he kicks the door open as best he can. “Is my space.”

The bed is thankfully large enough—much too large for a kid as shrimpy as Itachi—to sit all three of them comfortably. He settles the two of them, sitting back at the headboard.

Regulus is still crying, lost in grief. Alright, alright. Think. What would Mikoto do? He blanches. What a stupid fucking thought—Mikoto? Mikoto would probably put knives in their hands and set them loose on some poor unsuspecting enemies. What would Timothy do? Much better.

Open communication. Timothy talks everything out, pokes and needles and prods until he is sure no misunderstandings will trip them up. Itachi might not have his unflappable common sense, but he can listen.

“What has you so upset little brother?” He says softly. “Is it—is it the death?” Fuck, but he hopes not. He’s already on thin ice with Regulus, he doesn’t know how he would handle an increase in tensions.

“What—of course not.” It’s hard to make out the words underneath the hiccups and the forcefully even breaths. “It’s—what they’re saying about you—Grandfather said—the Aurors—‘Tachi I’m so sorry!”

“You have nothing to apologize for, dear-heart.” Words flow out of him without any conscious control, as relief clears out a little of the crushing anxiety. “I am perfectly fine—some bad press is ultimately meaningless.”

“I do—I am _so sorry_ —I acted so—”

He smooths his hand down Regulus’ back, trying for comfort. “Stuff and nonsense. You were scared, Reg. You were scared for good reason. I am sorry you had to find me in such a state. If it were you in my place—”

He shudders, mind growing mercifully blank. “I can’t tell you what I would have done, but I assure you it would be much worse. There’s nothing to forgive, please. You are my entire world, Reg. I couldn’t be angry with you even if I tried.”

“We do not have much time,” says Kreacher. There is so much emotion in his voice, such a complex interplay of pride and sadness and pain, that breath is punched out of Itachi all over again. He raises a hand not stroking Regulus’ back in invitation and sighs in contentment when Kreacher joins their cuddle.

“Thank you for coming. You made me so happy.”

“Lord Black was against it, but our star was most persuasive.” Says Kreacher. “I think it was the magical oath to set fire to the Castle if he doesn’t let him through the Wards that tipped the balance.”

“Well done, little brother.” He says, proud. “Fire is always the solution.” He pauses for a second, rewinding a couple of minutes. “Fire and honest, straightforward communication.” He amends. “Which is precisely what you did, because you’re the best of us.”

Regulus hiccups, a miserable little wet sound. “I’ve missed you, ‘Tachi. I’ve missed you so much. We’ve never been apart for more than an hour and now—”

Damn. “My books suggest this is a natural response, and that children need to learn to be apart.” He says, grinding out each word with effort. “The literature suggests this is a good thing.”

“Nothing about this is good,” Regulus says. “The books don’t have anything of value to say about what to do when the person who raised you suddenly has to be alone in a hostile place full of strangers, and you have to stay behind, locked in a Castle.”

Itachi thinks about this for a long moment, giving the words their due attention. “That’s—true. Our situation is unique. Well—what’s to stop you from visiting? The Headmaster is a kind enough man. Eccentric, sure, but he seems to genuinely care for his students. I think he won’t make a fuss if we’re reasonably discrete. I’m sure Grandfather can be convinced to let you visit in the evenings.”

“He better.” Says Regulus. “It’s—it’s not his fault, truly.” He admits, a little grudging but also fond. “He’s been terribly busy. He’s been going in and out of meetings, he’s barely ever at home. I see Lady Black sometimes, but—”

“I’ll speak to him. I’m sure he will visit me soon to discuss—how to proceed. With. The situation.”

Finally calm enough to sit unto his own power, Regulus slumps in a lotus position, face puffy and eyes red-rimmed. He looks adorable, croons a part of his mind. He looks terrible, growls another. “I will never get over how incompetent the DMLE is. Never. Bad press was one thing, but Grandfather is organizing a thirty-man security team for you. He won’t tell me the details, but news of your supposed magic-stripping powers have spread.”

Oh—oh shit—the letter.

“The Aurors are either incompetent or malicious.” He says. “Well, not all of them. Auror Shacklebolt came to see me and was honest about wanting to help. But the rest—who knows? More importantly, do you recall Lord Riddle?”

Regulus arches both of his brows and looks at him for half a moment. “Do I— _yes_ , ‘Tachi, I remember your _murder-friend_. He’s kind of hard to forget, what with being freakishly tall and with a face that communicates his eagerness to paint with your still twitching heart.”

“Eloquent.” There is no question about keeping this a secret. There are no secrets between them. He can’t do much for the boy, but he can damn well make sure he has all the information he needs to make informed choices. “He sent me a letter. Warning us—me. Apparently, people have been trying to, ah. Bribe him to kidnap me and ship me to wherever.”

Regulus takes in a deep breath. “Yes, Grandfather was worried about things like that. There was a price on your head even before, because of the Patronus. Now, though—it’s getting frenzied. Grandfather hired a team just to sort through the mail and pick out credible threats.”

“This world is so bizarre.” Wonders Itachi. “Imagine—sending someone a threatening letter! If ever there was a counterproductive way to go about villainy, that has to be it.”

“Yes, that is exactly the problem. That the hordes of people wanting to kill and/or enslave you are not going about it as cleverly as they should.”

“I mean.”

A short, strangled laugh bursts out of Regulus, made even funnier by the runny nose and puffy eyes. He looks like nothing else but a shocked hedgehog, honestly. “You’re such a disaster, ‘Tachi. Never mind. You should tell Grandfather about Lord Riddle. You’ve been causing such a mess, politically, you have no idea. Since we’re on full alert, Grandfather’s network has reported every single ripple that had to do with you. Your shenanigans with the Longbottom Heir and the Potter Heir, not to mention Morgan and Shafiq, they haven’t gone unnoticed.”

“James claimed me. Us.” He says, letting the fond if subdued smile creep up on his face. “He called out the entire school after the news broke. Gave us a gift, too. Grandfather might not appreciate it but Aunt Cassie will.”

“Merlin, Aunt Cassie.” Regulus shudders, and not only for show. “I don’t know who is scarier, her or Aunt Dorea. They’re close, you know. Best friends.”

“Well, they are sisters.” He says philosophically before something like dread creeps up on him. That tone… “They have treated you with kindness, I assume? With all the care and respect that is your due?”

“Yes, Circe, of course. They are fantastic. Terrifying but fantastic.”

“James told me about the blood-dress. He was very impressed.”

“I don’t know if I like you being so close to this James.” Says Regulus, not beating around the bush. “My mind-healer says I shouldn’t be jealous, but I can’t quite follow his logic. Why wouldn’t I be jealous? You’re the best brother, and you’re mine.”

“Everyone and their cat knows I would happily dance in the ashes of the world to see you smile, Reg.” He says, fond. “I remind them from time to time, just to keep if fresh. Be jealous if you want but you have little reason to be, honestly. Plus, you will like my allies here. My three badgers, for example.”

“Ah yes, part of Grandfather’s headache. Not only did you befriend three Ancient and Noble Heirs, but also three Muggleborns and an illegitimate Prince.”

Itachi raises his eyebrows. “If they can’t spin my networking across blood-lines, then our House is beyond saving. You know I don’t pay any attention to the blood-purity nonsense. Plus all the children I collected are smart, adorable and loyal. If someone has objections, they are welcome to raise them.”

Speaking of loyal and kind. “How are you, Kreacher?”

“I am well, child.”

Regulus harrumphs theatrically. “He is more than well. He’s been sitting in my lessons. His calligraphy is miles ahead of ours, you’ve no idea.”

Kreacher scoffs, but his ears twitch. Since the old elf is still cuddled up to his side, it’s not too awkward to lean down and nuzzle into his head. “I am so happy to hear that. You deserve the world—you’ve earned the world. It doesn’t surprise me your niche is art. You’ve always had a discerning eye.”

“I’m trying to get him to use some of the inks and brushes you left behind, but so far it’s been fruitless.”

“I have better things to do than waste time on frivolities.” Sniffs Kreacher.

“Art is not frivolous at all,” Itachi says. “Not at _all_ , dear. If our lives weren’t—what they are, I’d focus on at least one method of artistic expression for myself. Reg, of course, would excel in everything and anything he sets his mind to.”

“Did you do it—before?” Asks Regulus, a bit forced, but still honest.

“I did, actually.” He says, smiling a little at their taken aback expression. “Not for long, but it was the highlight of my youth. Clans typically specialized in at least one art-form, back then. We were all taught things like tea-ceremonies and calligraphy, but my Clan specialized in dance. Fire-dance, to be more precise.”

“How—why don’t I know this already?” Asks Regulus, playing up his outrage very well. “That is important intel for me to have, ‘Tachi. Would you be interested in something similar this time around?”

He blinks, not having expected this line of thought. “I don’t know.” He says, not strictly uncertain, but somewhere in the vicinity. “Tentatively yes? But that’s a question for the distant future. We have neither the time nor the resources, and what we do have is a swathe of pressing concerns.”

“Sure, sure.” Says Regulus. “You’re absolutely right. Better things to do. Hey, Kreacher, what’s out time like?”

“A couple of minutes left, bright star. We will be pushing on the outer limit of Lord Black’s conditions.”

“Before you go—let me introduce you to three of the badgers I’ve claimed.” He says, squeezing Kreacher a little. “And keep in mind—they’re the among the five that stood by me without amoment of hesitation, at considerable cost to their social standing.”

“They’re not good enough for you.” Sniffs Regulus. “But nobody is. Let’s see them, then.”

Reg fixes himself up admirably in barely a minute, with assistance from Kreacher. His eyes are still puffy, but the splotchy skin settled in its natural bone-white because Blacks invest all all their pigment in their hair.

“It’s best they come here. By now, the Common room will be full, and we don’t want any extra eyes on you, little brother.”

* * *

Andrew, Noah and Timothy sit in the Common room, very much kept apart from the dozen or so children playing at being unaffected. All three are quiet, with far too much tension in their jaws and shoulders for eleven-year-olds. They should be worrying about assignments and puppy-crushes, not murder and mental breakdowns.

“Siri,” says Timothy, with a wooden smile. “Do you need anything?”

“I wanted to show you three something.” He says, keeping his posture loose. “If you’re available?”

“Of course.”

They are all but jumping out of their skin, anxiety visible even to the most casual observer. Since their weird, weird House is ignoring them with the intensity of a thousand suns, it probably goes unnoticed.

“Thank you.” This time his smile must be less terrible because all three thaw a little, shoulders falling from around their ears.

The minute between the common room and their dorm is spent in silence, but Itachi doesn’t mind. He had severely over-emoted today, what with the intoxicating berries and—everything else, Lady wept.

Reg hasn’t moved from his lotus position on Itachi’s bed, and the three badgers gawk when he ushers them into his bedroom. Is there a taboo about sleeping chambers here? He hadn’t come across anything like that in his reading, but that doesn’t mean much.

“Little brother, Kreacher, these are my companions here at Hogwarts, Noah Young, Andrew Clarke and Timothy Warnock. Badgers, this is my little brother, Regulus Black, and the person who raised me, Kreacher.”

“Merry meet,” says Regulus, inclining his head politely, echoed by Kreacher’s barely audible rasp. It’s thrilling to introduce Kreacher like this, knowing he will be treated with respect that is his due. His Pureblood allies would definitely be less understanding.

“Merry meet,” says Timothy, bowing his ridiculous bow. Andrew and Noah settle for ‘Nice to meet you’, which definitely looks more natural.

There is a beat of silence, both sides uncertain how to proceed from here, but visibly shaking with curiosity. Itachi, in contrast, feels like a sleepy cat, satisfied to have all his kittens in his reach, safe and happy.

“Do you happen to recall that big batch of Muggle philosophy that we got Kreacher to haul in for us, Reg.”

(“Oh God, not again—”)

Regulus sends him a curious, slightly offended look. “ _Me_? Do _I_ recall a haul of books—are you feeling well? Do you need—”

“Yes, yes, very amusing.” He says, with a fond smile. “There was one book there, by one Lady Warnock—”

“Yes, of course, Existentialist Ethics—wait. _No_. Truly?”

Itachi nods and sends Timothy a smug look. “Yes. Timothy here is the Lady’s Heir. Not only that, but his father is also a published philosopher and a lecturer at a prestigious institution.”

Regulus turns his enormous eyes onto Timothy who visibly doesn’t know what to do with himself. Which is fair. Regulus is adorable.

“Was that really necessary?” Says Andrew, but his tone is relaxed. Everything about his three badgers screams ‘exhausted relief’ which is touching but doesn’t make him feel any better about putting them through any of this.

“It was, yes. Not only because it will annoy the morally reprehensible side of my family, but because Reg has never met a child near his age other than me, and he needs an ice-breaker.”

He sends Andrew a swift smile and is glad to see golden eyes largely settled. “I am sorry, truly.” He says, addressing both of them. “You deserve better from me.”

“Nope.” Says Noah. “No. Stop it. Your father died, one way or another. The press and your brother—I wish we could help you more.”

Itachi’s smile slips into a more wistful line, but he has nothing to say, really. He can’t imagine they can help—but he recognizes they want to.

“‘Tachi—‘Tachi we must visit them—” Regulus interrupts the rather depressing internal monologue. “Your Master Warnock issued an invitation just now—we _must_ —Lady Warnock is writing a follow-up—”

He joins his brother on the bed and wraps himself around his back like an octopus. “Anything, starshine. I am not sure we can manage before Yule, however, what with Timothy and myself being stuck in this infernal Castle.”

“Yule is fine.” Says Regulus, twisting so his face is buried in Itachi’s neck. ”I will visit, though, as many times as I can squeeze out of Grandfather. I approve of your companions, although I can’t believe you managed to snag Lady Warnock’s Heir. Oh, wait, let me move, ‘Tachi, I haven’t spoken to your other badgers—“

“No.” He says, slumping further, making his dead-weight fall straight onto Regulus. “I haven’t seen you in weeks, little brother, and best believe I will get my share of cuddles one way or another.”

“Stop it you big lump—I have to leave in less than a minute, I don’t want to make a bad impression on your allies—”

“I’m sure they won’t mind, they’re very sensible.”

“‘Tachi, for Lady’s sake—”

“We must go, child.” It’s the first thing Kreacher said in mixed company, and his badgers almost visibly flinch, surprised by the depth and rasp of the sound. “Magic of the vow tightens around us. Best leave now before we’re forced.”

“Alright. Alright.” Reg squirms in his arms until he is as wrapped around Sirius as he is wrapped around him. “I love you.” He says, voice no less fierce for the tremble. “I will see you soon.”

With some reluctance, Itachi lets him go. “Love you both.” He says as Regulus shuffles to Kreacher. “More than anything.”

They’re gone between one moment and the next, and any remaining energy whooshes out of Itachi with them. He slumps in his bed, digging the flat of his palms into his eyes. Alright. You’re alright. It’s just emotional whiplash, calm down.

“Holy God, Siri, that was intense.” Says Timothy, somewhere between overwhelmed, concerned and relieved. “Do you need—can we help.”

Something not unlike a sob catches in his throat, and he swallows, once, twice, three times. “I am fine.” He says, well aware how rough his voice sounds. “Seeing my brother is a privilege. I just—need a moment.”

“Of course. It’s getting late, too. Why don’t we all just—rest up, hey?”

“Ложись с богом спать; утро вечера мудренее.” He can’t help but say, probably mangling the rolling r’s terribly. “It’s from a folk-tale, never mind. Your advice, as usual. Let me just—”

Fawkes chooses that moment to knock on his door with his beak, which should look ridiculous, but it’s almost enough to push him over the edge and straight into sobbing.

“Come in, please, you are always welcome—”

Fawkes croons at about one-fourth of the volume he’s come to expect. It’s a soft, haunting sound, filling the room with a self-aware, accepting stage of grief. Itachi has about a spoonful of composure left and that’s trickling away by the fucking moment, so he’s debating whether he can kick everybody out in time, or if he should just hide under the covers when Fawkes glides into his lap. He hiccups into the soft feathers.

There is only so much you can do in face of an immortal fire-god come to share your grief. He can’t hurt Fawkes, of course, but he does his best to cling gently, burrowing into his unlikely protector as best he can. There is nothing to do about this eruption of emotions but to ride them out and prevent them from fucking shit up on their way out. Noah is right, after all. One way or another, his father is dead. He won’t grieve for the individual, but he will grieve for another lost opportunity.

The badgers shuffle out of his space at some point, while Fawkes is still singing, spinning tales of grief and acceptance. Phoenixes are creatures of fire and death and life, when it comes down to it, for all that they’re symbols of Light and goodness. Fawkes doesn’t sing of forgiveness, he speaks of letting go, of sacrificing lost hopes on the altar of new beginnings. It’s not at all a gentle process, but it is a cleansing one.

* * *


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Real-life clashes with Hogwarts-life, and children are being children.

Itachi is not naive enough to expect things to settle in a day. Itachi is _also_ an adult, and as an adult, there is no amount of mental preparation that will make the frenzied children any more bearable. Itachi’s name is on everybody’s lips and lines are being drawn and re-drawn by the minute. It’s a boarding school for civilian children—being mindlessly dramatic is very much their right. He doesn’t begrudge the children their overwrought sense of drama in theory. In practice, however, yesterday was harrowing, today will be worse, and most importantly, a sense of perspective is forced on him that he has tried very hard to keep away from.

It’s—so fucking strange. Everything about the dysphoria of being an adult living as a child is so strange. On some days, he can flow into his role more or less okay. Sirius Black the cultural figure is such an oddity to the children, that he is allowed almost any eccentricity. He doesn’t talk about his upbringing, and they fill in the blanks with whatever story fits their perceptions. It’s a useful system—on most days.

On days like these, it’s almost forbiddingly difficult to force himself to ignore the yawning chasm between the problems he’s facing and the banal setting he is forced into. How would this have played out if he was a child? If they placed an eleven-year-old torture victim into a school, to serve the function of a freak-show exhibit? While, of course, the entire fucking country seems determined to be as pointlessly spiteful as possible.

It would be one thing if this was a political game—if, say, the Light faction started a smear campaign about the Black Heir. That would, at least, be a reasonable move. But this—this is just humans at their absolute lowest. Tearing apart a—presumed—child for nothing more than passing amusement. Petty human bullshit. Never mind the Light—if a small newspaper concerned with the class struggle and equal right was the one lambasting him, Itachi might have applauded them. Hell, he might have agreed to an interview. But the Prophet has no ideology, has no purpose, other than relative monetary gain and transient social influence.

Let’s—put that aside for now. He can’t do a lot about most of those things, but he can focus on keeping his responsibilities in order. He has acquired a clutch of children that he now has an obligation to. On most days, he doesn’t think of them as his responsibility. On most days, he can make himself forget he is not one of them. Today, he wants to try—really try—manifesting his Sharingan, and see if his Susanõ is big enough to keep the children he had claimed safe.

“Dark thoughts.” Says Andrew. “I don’t know that I’ve ever seen you this grim, Siri.”

Itachi meets his eyes, gaze softening by instinct. He might be furious and ever-so bloodthirsty—he might feel like a Shinobi in hostile territory—but that doesn’t mean he is going to snap at his kids.

“I don’t know that I will be good company today, I’m afraid.” He says, with complete honesty. “Yesterday was—a lot. Seeing my brother—” Seeing Regulus only reminded him that he is in a fucking school and not where he should be—“Me and Reg, we’re close. It’s beyond difficult to be kept apart like this.”

“I miss my sister too,” says Andrew, a complicated little smile quirking his lips. “I’m really glad I got to meet your Regulus. He looks like a special boy.”

“He really does,” says Timothy, with a pale shadow of his wholesome smile. The level of aggression thrust at them is hardest on Timothy. Noah is shy by nature, and since he treats all attention like aggression, he has learned to handle it reasonably well. This, for him, is life as normal. Andrew only grows fiercer when threatened, innate stubbornness coming to the front. But Timothy—he’s a well-adjusted, peaceful soul. He has lived a charmed life full of love and support, and while that is a big part of what makes him so precious, it also makes him soft.

Timothy could learn a lot from James, Itachi thinks. He doesn’t know James that well, yet—he doesn’t even know Timothy that well, yet—but he suspects the two boys have soft spots in similar places.Aunt Dorea made sure to give James teeth and claws to guard his, however. Timothy probably never thought he’d have had to.

“I admit I didn’t know what to expect—” continues Timothy. “He looks so much like you, but he acts very differently. I thought you would be more similar, with how close you are.”

Itachi smiles a little, fond. It is an astute observation, for only having spent minutes in each other's company. “We’re very different people. Regulus is everything light and kind to be found in the House Black. I practically raised him myself—Kreacher and I—”

What are you doing, talking about these things out in the open? He breaks off, the soft smile folding away into a watered-down version of his battle-face. “Perhaps it is best to continue this conversation in a more private setting. We seem to have caught the attention of some onlookers.”

Whatever shines from his eyes must be more honest than usual, because instead of giggling, the eavesdropping children shrink away, eyes dropping down instinctively. Even civilians—especially civilians—recognize a predator when it snarls in their face.

“Hey, Siri,” says Timothy, voice light and forced. “While I can’t say I’m personally all that surprised by this iteration of Heir Black, I have a feeling you kept your claws away all this time for a reason. Do you really want to let all that effort go to waste because of a bad day?”

Good point, well made. Completely useless, however.

“I will talk to Madam Woodward about a Calming Draught.” He says, as evenly as he can. “I need to make an appointment with the Healer either way.” He really does. With the amount of Sunberries he ate last night, his body is chock-full of magic. One good thing to come out of this fucking mess, perhaps?

“That might be for the best. Again, personally, I think this side of you is really cool, and you should look into channelling this energy more, but like. Maybe not like this?” Timothy is always earnest, always careful with his words, but it hits different when Itachi is as keyed up as he is. Where he would usually melt into a puddle of admiration, now his protective instincts play up. Safeguarding innocence is not Itachi’s forte—much to his shame—but he can at least try to give the child the tools to protect himself.

He is trying to unbend his very much violence-oriented mind enough to say something lighthearted to set the child at ease when Grandfather’s owl, Asper, drops a letter in his lap.

Far too many pairs of eyes follow the letter’s path from owl to lap, and the barely banked rage flares up again. Never mind the fucking schoolchildren. Read your fucking letter.

* * *

Dear Sirius,

I hope this letter finds you reasonably well. I imagine it will not, but a man can hope.

I will be meeting you today after lunch, in place of your second block of lectures. There are many things we need to discuss, and many people we need to discuss them with. Prepare for several exhausting hours. We will be meeting with the Head of your security team, your Head of House, representatives of our law-firm and Cassie and Dorea. I wished to spread this over several days, but circumstances have cornered us into closing ranks sooner than I’d have hoped.

Congratulations on repairing your relationship with Regulus. I did not doubt you would, but I will not miss a desolate grandson moping around the castle. Future visits will be more complicated to arrange, because of your increased security. We will discuss it all in the afternoon.

Remind me to scold you about all the Potter drama you’ve brought down on our heads. Between you and Dorea’s Heir, you’ve certainly shaken things up. You would think two eleven-year-olds don’t have much influence over the Wizengamot, and you would be wrong.

Keep yourself safe,

Your Grandfather

* * *

“Good news?” Says Andrew—drawls really. Whoever taught this child to be dangerous should be commended. He’s up there with James, when he wants to be, and James had Dorea Black as a primary instructor for his entire life.

“Depends on your point of view, I suppose.” He strangles a sigh and folds the letter into his pocket. “My Grandfather is—well. Keeping me busy. He is coming to the school after lunch. You will have to find another partner for Charms.”

Timothy’s eyes are worried, but his tone is brittle-light. “Meetings? That’s cool. Very grown-up, very on-brand.”

What does that even mean? Goodness, these children. It does make Itachi unclench some, which was perhaps the point. “I am a very old man, yes. I was going to ask if you want to have a private lunch but that will have to be postponed. I likely won’t even make dinner, with how many people I will have to see today.”

“They will remember to feed you?” Frowns Anthony, earning himself half of an honest smile.

“At least one of the meetings will include a Healer. I’m sure I will be fed.”

Andrew nods firmly, not at all willing to be embarrassed about fussing. “Good. Moving on—work with me in Herbology? Tim can partner with Noah. Please?”

Itachi looks at his most temperamental little badger more carefully. It’s not out of character as such—Andrew is casually possessive of all of them, Itachi most of all, but he isn’t typically this forceful about it.

There is really only one answer here, especially since he really doesn’t have the strength to look deeper, today. “Of course.” Tomorrow, tomorrow he will prod a bit.

Andrew nods, relief plain in the slumped line of his shoulders. If he were anyone else, Itachi would assume he was intimidated and was looking to Itachi for comfort. Since it’s Andrew, it’s likely nothing as simple as that.

“Best be off. Professor Woodward looks angry enough to spit fire, and I don’t want to be the target of that.” Says Timothy, with the forced cheerfulness of a child nearing the end of his rope.

* * *

Ravenclaws. Somehow Itachi forgot they share this class with fucking Ravenclaw. Even Gryffindor would have been better—the lions, bless their little hearts, were straightforward creatures. But Ravenclaws will jeer and prod and nudge, and it’s very much up in the air if Itachi will manage to keep his temper, today.

By the time they reach the Herbology classroom, Ravenclaws are already there, most of them staring at Itachi like he is presently butchering a small child. There are at least fifteen minutes left until class begins, and Itachi knows—he just fucking knows—there is at least one child here stupid enough to start shit.

The Morgan Heir—Athelstan—draws away from his herd with firm, measured steps, meeting Itachi halfway. “Merry meet,” says the boy, impressively blank for how uncomfortable he must be with being the focus of attention. 

Itachi nods back, pasting a polite enough smile on his face. “Merry meet.”

Morgan opens his mouth again, likely to parrot some procedural bit of polite gibberish when he’s interrupted.

“Don’t speak to him Athelstan,” hisses one of the Ravenclaw girl-children. Parry, he recalls dimly. She ostensibly speaks to Morgan, but she’s turned to Itachi, eyes wide and gleeful. “You know what he is.”

Itachi raises en eyebrow at the daring Muggleborn. He’s not even angry—the sheer rash stupidity of the action doesn’t lend itself to real anger. At least she’s brave about her—whatever this is. Andrew, somewhat predictably, doesn’t share his condescending high-handed approach. He steps up next to Itachi, lips twisted in a sneer that would pass muster with Lord Riddle. Should he—stop this fucking train-wreck somehow? He’s a bit too detached from all this drama, a bit too focused on the slightly more pressing issue of keeping his fucking temper to feel is is in any way capable of mediating anything right now.

“Enough, Parry.” Oh, interesting. He did not expect Morgan to involve himself any further. Who knows—at least he will likely be more politic than Andrew would have been? “Sirius is my peer and a valued member of my circle. You are neither.”

Parry looks uncertain for a moment. before she decides, like a baby-extrovert, offence is the best defence. “You can’t mean to defend a twisted, evil boy like him? You know what he did—he’s an unnatural frea—”

Itachi—thusfar perfectly willing to stay uninvolved as much as possible, physically feels his calm evaporate from his veins. His eyes fall to half-mast, and his shoulders relax into his most casual-lordling pose.

“What was that, little girl?” He says, meeting her eyes, letting her see just how unamused he is by her poor choice in terminology.

“You heard me.” The glare she sends him is not even filled with bravado. For some reason, something leads the girl to believe that she has the upper hand, here. Real-world upper-hand. “I should not even have to be in the same room as you—”

Andrew interrupts whatever the suicidally brave little monologue would have been.

“If you knew the first thing about what your words mean, you ignorant, bigoted little fly, you would be horrified by yourself. Alas, your House’s words are wasted on you. I thought you were just a social climber, but you’re not, are you?You’re a grasper, clawing your way up from mediocrity by any means necessary. Siri could be homeless, penniless and alone, and he would be ten times anything you could ever hope to be.”

Silence is heavy, with all eyes trained not on Itachi for once, but Andrew who somehow delivered the venomous little speech with a perfectly even tone.

“How dare you—” Says a girl-eagle. “She wasn’t even talking to you—I will tell Professor Flitwick—”

Fawley of all people is the one to prevent a full-on childish free-for-all. “I mean, Andrew is not wrong,” he says, scowling. “I hate Black, everyone knows that, and even I think she is full of it. Just last week she was sucking up to Black and every other toff like there was no tomorrow. There is nothing there but a brat looking to make rich, powerful friends.”

“Alright maybe we should all calm down,” says Timothy, both arms raised in the air in a gesture of surrender.

“Nobody asked you, lover-boy—” snaps someone, which finally has Itachi deciding he has had enough of this—

Morgan snaps his head up from his slouched position. “Watch your mouth, Read.” He says in an ice-still voice. “You can’t walk back some things. You all need to stop this foolishness. Nobody wants to start a feud in their first month at Hogwarts, but that is where this is heading.”

“Who would listen to you,” says Parry, shock having faded into anger. “You speak to your Housemates like this, after defending that sort—”

“Students. An explanation, if you please. Now.”

Professor Woodward shows not a hint of an expression, even to Itachi’s arguably professional eye.

“Well?”

“We were engaged in a riveting philosophical discussion, Professor.” He says, voice dipping into an interesting cadence. It is clear to everyone—Professor Woodward more than most—that he is not only furious but mean about it. “I was interested in how one would structure a dialectic if one of the two sides was limited to arguments devoid of any reason whatsoever. Some of my classmates from Ravenclaw were kind enough to indulge me. It was a very rewarding experience, all around. _I learned a lot_.”

“Is that so.” The Professor doesn’t take her eyes off of Itachi—very aware that the child in front of her is nowhere near as powerless as a schoolchild should, perhaps, be.

“If my classmates are so patiently trying to teach me lessons, Professor, it would be unconscionable to spurn their efforts. I was raised to respect reciprocity, if that eases any worries you might have that I might be taking advantage of their generosity. I will be sure to repay any debts I have incurred.”

He meets her pursed lips by setting his jaw and tilting his head just-so, not so much in a gesture of arrogance, but determination. He promised not to retaliate with violence, and he won’t. Nobody on this fucking Earth can demand he let himself be pushed around by fucking infants.

“Very well. Welcome, class. I warn you now—any misbehaviour will be frowned upon. Try me at your own peril. Miss Perry, Mister Reed, you’re in front. Mister Black, Mister Clarke, you’re in the back. Mister Warnock, fifteen points to Hufflepuff. In.”

* * *

Parry loses Ravenclaw sixty points over the course of the lecture, which puts her in the lead punishment-wise. Andrew loses forty, same as the Reed-boy, and Morgan and Fawley both earn twenty. Timothy earns himself another fifteen, and Itachi is left on an even zero. He’s left alone for the most part, not really participating in the lesson at all other than to answer the questions he’s asked to show he knows the material.

“Professor—may I have a word?” He says at the end of the lesson. The rest of the children have quickly cleared out of the deliberately punishing lesson, and the displeased instructor. The Professor raises an eyebrow at his badgers that bravely refuse to leave, and he tries for a placating smile. “It is perhaps best they stay too. It concerns them, tangentially.”

“Very well. Your next lesson is History of Magic, correct? I will write you a note. Well?”

“I assume you have been informed about the meetings my Lord Grandfather has scheduled in the school?”

“I am.” She doesn’t look happy about the fact. “I was of the opinion that such things should be done outside of a teaching establishment, but I was outvoted.”

Itachi purses his lips right back, just as displeased. “I share your opinion, but that is not what I wanted to discuss. The topic of this particular set of meetings is that of organizing additional security of my person. Most notably, Grandfather has hired a team of hit-wizards to be my security team.”

Woodward looks at him unblinkingly for a long moment. He can’t quite read her easily—her mannerisms are too strange, too divorced from the social convention he knows. “That, I was not made aware of. Is there a concrete reason for these new measures, other than the obvious? I take it the DMLE is involved?”

Itachi jerks his head into something deeper than a nod but more shallow than a bow. “I was told there were credible threats made to my, ah. Life and liberty, let’s say. Grandfather is concerned. As is Auror Shacklebolt. One of the meetings today is with him, as it happens.”

“I will make sure to be present at that meeting, then. Please schedule a meeting with me and your future Head of Security or whatever the Pureblood Noble name is for the chief hit-wizard that will be in charge of the team stationed at Hogwarts. Anything else?”

“Yes. Mister Clarke, Mister Warnock and Mister Young will be the most affected by this. I will be writing to their guardians personally, to inform them of my situation, and ask if they consent their children be—ah—included in this situation. I would ask the school to do something similar—if nothing else than to add—weight—to my account. Otherwise, I would have to find an alternative solution because it would be, frankly, wildly inappropriate for a team of grown witches and wizards to trail a group of children without their guardians’ consent.”

The Pureblood witch looks between Dark Pureblood Heir and three Muggleborn children and her lips twitch a bit. “I assure you I would have done so without your urging, but I applaud your good sense. Is there anything else you would like to bring to my attention? Anything I should, perhaps, be prepared for?”

Well, that’s certainly pointed.

“No, I will not bring the full weight of House Black on the heads of a headstrong eleven-year-old girl, no matter how unwise her comments might be. Now, the Reed boy—”

He thinks he sees a glint of humour in her eyes, but it’s quickly folded into stern disapproval. “I have come to hold you to a very high standard of behaviour, Mister Black. Please don’t disappoint me by engaging in foolish comeuppance. Settle your disputes in an appropriate fashion, if you would.”

Don’t feed the boy to Aunt Cassie—message received. Lady but it is pleasant to spend time with adults, for once. They’re so easy to get along with.

“Honestly, Professor, even if I were inclined towards massive overreactions, the parts of my House with any real operating power have better things to do than involve themselves in schoolyard arguments. I promised I wouldn’t harm any of the children unduly, haven’t I?”

“Excellent. Anything you three would like to add?”

Timothy steps forward without so much as a pause. “Absolutely, thank you, Professor. I think we should split our dorm. I understand there is little you can do about the way the students are treating Siri—Sirius, but at the very least he should be able to be at peace in his own room. Especially if he is going to have a security team. I would ask you to place the four of us in a four-bed dorm, please.”

Professor Woodward is quiet for a moment, visibly mulling over this. Itachi, on the other hand, grows even more relaxed—what a clever clutch of children he’s found. “An unorthodox request, but this is an unorthodox situation. I will consider it. Anything else? Alright. Here is the note for Professor Binns. Goodbye, children.”

* * *

Timothy pulls them into the first available nook that is far away from the Herbology classroom to be reasonably safe from Professor Woodward’s wrath. “Death threats—what the Hell, Siri—”

Noah saves him from answering. “I mean,” he says, blinking owlishly at Timothy instead of Itachi for once. “He’s a celebrity, Tim. Great Royal Prince Black or whatever. Celebrities get death threats all the time, right? It’s not that weird.”

Timothy inhales sharply, eyes trained at the ceiling, exhales and starts the whole process again. Huh—a reasonably effective calming mechanism, clearly trained.

“The real question is, what changed.” Says Andrew, looking like he doesn’t really want the answer to that question. “If you get death threats all the time and imagine you do being who you are, why did Lord Black hire a security team now?”

Lady love them, but he can’t get into it now—how would he even explain the concept of a credible threat? That he has a real price on his head now, big enough that people will be reckless for it?

Short answer it is. “I don’t know.” He says. “Grandfather hasn’t told me, and I am honestly not curious. I don’t even mind the security team, I think it’s a solid idea. They will be limited, obviously, in what they can do, but I think nobody seriously expects me to be attacked here. The team will serve as a deterrent, I would think.” Kreacher is his best security measure, honestly. Kreacher and Black Family Magic. But that’s neither here nor there.

“God, Siri, you never catch a break, do you? First, your father attacks you, then the whole country goes mad for no reason and now—”

Itachi sighs a little, without a single clue how to respond. “At least you understand now why it’s difficult for the students to get a rise out of me. My problems tended to be like this, growing up—and now, I suppose. Fawley and Perry and the rest don’t really stack up to the fact people want to murder me—or that I’ve put you three at risk and I can’t quite figure out how to fix that. Even if I left school, you would still be known as my allies.”

(“Your friends—”, “Not the time, Tim—”)

“Seems to me a security team is a good solution for that too,” says Noah, temporarily supplanting Timothy as the most even-tempered of his kids. “And, I mean, this shouldn’t last too long? This just a scandal, right? Don’t those blow over pretty quick?”

The nonsense in the paper will blow over, absolutely, but the bounty is probably going to remain. What he _should_ have done is kept all the children at arm's length and sped through Hogwarts as quickly as possible. Although, that would mean Regulus would be alone in his later years—

“I’ll look into additional measures,” Itachi says firmly. “It is too late now, the damage is done. I can only apologize for putting you in danger. I am truly sorry. I will do everything I can to keep you safe.”

* * *


End file.
